


Remnants

by thimbleful



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Universe, F/M, Memory Loss, More or less Canon Compliant, Political!Jon, Post-Canon, Romance, post canon briemund side pairing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:02:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 125,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27279928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thimbleful/pseuds/thimbleful
Summary: She doesn't know the strange man before her. He could be anyone. An ally as well as an enemy. But there's something in the way he smells, beneath the miasma of blood and mud and sweat and death, that tells her everything will be all right if only they stay together. As if her body remembers what her mind does not.After the Long Night, the people at Winterfell lose their memories. In the days following, they try to deal with the aftermath of a war they don't remember, with people they don't remember. Everyone believes the pretty lady with the red hair and the man with the wolf sword are king and queen of the castle. And they do feel drawn to one another. They do feel a bond and a powerful attraction they try their hardest to fight because they don't know, do they, what they truly are to one another. What if they give in and it turns out they're not married at all?This fic starts after the Long Night and takes place between canon scenes up until the end and continues post canon where we'll get a happily ever after.--- ON INDEFINITE HIATUS ---
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 1855
Kudos: 1128





	1. A Handsome Brave & Gentle Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> So apparently I’m writing again? I had exhausted all my taste for writing romance and tension and Jonsa to the point where I felt 100% done. But apparently all I needed was a 2.5 month break to recharge my J word batteries. Ngl, I’m worried they’ll drain quickly, but I’m gonna try to juggle original writing and fic because I think variety might be the solution. Anyway...
> 
> I dedicate this to the anon who really wanted me to write another fic. I was really waffling: should I post or should I not? There were a few things finally pushing me toward post, and your enthusiasm absolutely was one of those factors. Thank you, anon! <3
> 
>  **Potential trigger warning:** during the first part of the fic, no one remembers what happened or who they are. Jon and Sansa will give into their feelings and be intimate during that time. But they _both_ have temporary memory loss so one isn't taking advantage of the other, if that helps.

She should be more afraid, shouldn’t she?

The quiet weeping and shuddering breathing and confused whispers of the men, women, and children behind her fill the dank unfamiliar crypt. They stand among bodies and bones, on the shards of broken sarcophagi illuminated by torches and flickering candles cradled by the stone hands of statues. They stand surrounded by death, new and old, and none of them knows why.

Yes, she should be more afraid, but fear must be an old friend of hers for her body pushes panic aside and sharpens something in her. An awareness. A vigilance. She sees that shift in some of the others too. In the beautiful woman in breeches, in the corpulent man in fine robes, and in the dwarf by her side who holds something small of dull metal in his hand.

She holds something too. A dagger, dark, jagged, and gleaming in the yellow light. Is she a fighter? She turns the weapon in her hand. Glances at the fallen bodies and the bones and the broken stone. A shiver trickles down her back. Whatever happened here, it was unnatural. In a way she’s grateful she has no recollection of it.

“It seems, my lady,” the dwarf says, the stench of wine wafting from him, joining the stench of blood and feces emanating from the fresh corpses, “that you and I wear the finest clothes.”

Swallowing down her nausea, she nods. She’s noticed it too. They’re not alone in being well dressed, but even among the handful of people in fine clothes of expensive fabrics and supple leather, she and the dwarf stand out--and stand at the helm of the group too.

She might be the lady of this castle. She might be its queen.

Duty straightens her spine and clears her mind further. They have neither food nor water down here. They have no cots or furs or blankets. Despite their fear, some are yawning. Two children sleep in what must be their mothers’ arms. She hears several stomachs rumbling, feels hunger gnawing at her own, feels thirst clawing at her throat.

They can’t stay down here.

Not one bit of her wants to see what awaits them on the other side of the door, but duty carries her up the stairs and leads her hand to the door handle. There, with her ear pressed to the wood, she listens to silence before duty has her gingerly pushing the door open and peering at a courtyard bathing in the grey light of dawn. There are bodies out there too. Bodies and bones. Piles of them. As if the end of the world came and went and left the survivors in the crypt all alone. Her heart beats so hard she can’t hear her own breathing, but she feels her stomach quivering whenever she takes another breath. She knows her breathing is as unsteady as her legs when duty carries her outside too.

The dwarf follows her and the stench of wine follows him. She doesn’t like it, knows somehow that the stench of wine is _bad_. When he looks at her his eyes are kind, but that stench tells that sharp thing inside her, that instinct honed by experiences she no longer remembers, to stay vigilant. To keep a few feet between him and her even as something else, something soft and afraid within, longs for a hand to hold.

“There’s someone there,” he murmurs.

Among the piles of bodies, a man stumbles, sword in hand. When their eyes meet, he stops. Lowers his sword. The cold colors his breath white as he traipses closer. She tightens her hold on the weapon she doesn’t even know whether she knows how to use.

“Hello?” the man says and he sounds as lost as she feels. Neither she nor the dwarf replies; they just stand there, frozen, watching the man watching them. “I’m not going to hurt you, my lady.” He sheathes his sword, the pommel white and shaped like a wolf’s head, and holds up his hands. “May I come closer?”

The surprising warmth in his voice makes her nod her consent. “Do you know what happened here, my lord?”

The man shakes his head. He’s closer now, close enough for her to see that he’s a bit scraped and bruised. Dark of hair and eyes. Somewhere between twenty and thirty. Handsome.

“You don’t remember anything, either, do you,” he says.

He too has kind eyes, but he could be an enemy. He could’ve been part of the army attacking this castle. Or he could’ve been among those defending it. Holding his gaze, she turns her focus inward to listen to her instincts, but their reply gets drowned out by the roar of a beast. A dragon. Black and mighty and terrible against the grey sky. In one smooth movement, the man swirls around and, shielding her with his body, pulls his sword. As if he, one lonely man, could stop that monstrous beast if it decided to swoop down and attack.

It should be a laughable thought. But something deep within tells her maybe he can--and not because he survived whatever happened out here. No, it’s something in the way he smells. Beneath the miasma of blood and mud and sweat and death, there’s _something_ that tells both the sharp and soft within that everything will be all right if only they stay together.

Up above, the dragon’s silhouette blends into the clouds and disappears. The man turns back around, then, and when he takes her hand so gently in his and looks deeply into her eyes and makes sure she’s all right, her life feels like a song. A terrifying, thrilling song. She should let go of this wolf sword man. He’s a stranger, a complete stranger--a handsome, brave, and gentle stranger who was willing to face a dragon to protect her and she hears the leather of their gloves creaking for she doesn’t let go at all. For one brief moment, she holds on tightly to this kind stranger in this unkind strange world. For one brief moment, she indulges the small and soft and afraid she’s pushed aside. Then duty reminds her that there’s work to do and, with a final squeeze of gratitude, she does let go.

  
  


There are so many survivors and so many different sigils and armors. Even Essosi men who just barely speak the Common Tongue. Anyone could be an enemy. Though, looking at the piles of bodies, of skeletons and half-rotted corpses, it’s as if they all came together and fought an army of the reanimated dead until they found a way to break the dark spell that brought hollow life to what should be gone. Anyone living would be an ally. To be safe, though, the wolf sword man sends out a party of riders carrying a wolf sigil on their shields to scout for an enemy camp.

He takes charge quite naturally, the wolf sword man--and so does she. She never even makes a conscious decision. She sees what needs to be done--a place for the injured, people to tend to them, servants to the kitchens, sleeping arrangements--and gets them done. Somehow, people listen. They huddle around her and him and accept their orders without protest. They look relieved, even. Relieved that someone else takes charge. Relieved to be given distraction from the horrifying fact that not one survivor of this deadly battle came out of it with their memories intact.

She envies them a little, would like to be told what to do too. There are too many strangers, too many questions, too much fear in their wide eyes. She longs for the safety of _home_. Longs to hide there. To rest. There is no place like that, though. Not for as long as her memories remain lost. There’s only work and worry, weariness and wariness. At least the wolf sword man never strays far from her side, not even when a tall lady knight offers her services, and as long as he’s by her side the lady feels a little safer. The closest thing to home she has, as ridiculous as that sounds. 

Or maybe it doesn’t.

Maybe, before all this, they knew each other.

She glances at the wolf sword man and finds him already looking at her. Instead of averting his eyes at being caught, he gives her a soft kind of smile no man should give a woman he doesn’t know. Her stomach does an odd little jolt and if her cheeks are pink she can’t blame solely the winter air nipping at them.

“My lord!” A knight wearing a breastplate and carrying a round shield with a bird sigil bows to the wolf sword man. “We found something in the godswood. Someone.” Blood glitters in a fresh gash on his cheek. “We need help.”

The wolf sword man wants her to stay behind, her and the lady knight, but an instinct that’s neither fear nor duty but something else entirely tells the lady to follow him. So she does. She and the lady knight and a short freckled fellow and a man with a golden hand. 

Bodies line the path all the way to the heart-tree, a weirwood with a face carved into its white bole. The lady carefully steps around a young man whose eyes stare unseeing at the sky, dried blood painting a line from his mouth down his chin, a broken spear sprouting from his side despite the breastplate. She’s seen so many dead bodies by now and yet that sight turns her stomach, weakens her legs. She doesn’t stumble, she doesn’t gasp, she only slows her step for a beat to gather herself--and that’s enough for the wolf sword man to notice her distress. To offer his arm. She accepts it with a grateful sigh and leans on his strength for a moment before walking on, toward the tree.

Beneath its blood-red crown, inside a ring of fallen soldiers, stands a feral-looking girl with a broken spear in one hand and a dagger in the other. She’s scratched and bruised and bleeding and looks so young beneath her fierce mask the lady’s heart clenches. In a wheelchair behind the girl, sleeps a boy who’s entirely unscathed, as if every fallen soldier died protecting him. Everyone but the girl.

“She won’t let us close,” the knight says.

“Why should I.” The feral girl’s lips curl. “I don’t know what you did to us but you’ll regret it.”

“We didn’t do anything.” The wolf sword man unfastens his sword belt and lays it, scabbard, sword and all, in the snow. “We want to help.”

“Be careful, my lord.” The knight touches the wound on his cheek. “She might not look like much, but she’s a vicious little thing.”

“Aye, she looks it.” The wolf sword man lays down his dagger too and chances a step closer. “Something terrible happened here tonight. Something unnatural. Some of those bodies”--he nods at the ring around them--”have been dead for a long time. Others just fell. Doesn’t that seem strange?”

The girl’s eyes narrow. “You a sorcerer? You don’t look like one.”

The man’s lips twitch in a quick smile. “Good. I’m not one. I don’t remember what happened here. None of us do. And I don’t think you do either. You don’t know why you’re protecting that boy, do you. All you know is that you did a really good job because there’s not a scratch on him. You on the other hand…”

The feral girl lifts her chin. “I’m fine.”

“You’re _hurt_. You need someone to look over your wounds. You need food and rest. And that boy you’re protecting? He needs help too.”

As the wolf sword man keeps inching closer to the feral girl and the sleeping boy, it strikes the lady how alike they are. Dark hair and dark brows. The similarities in the clothes and hair styles of the feral girl and the wolf sword man. The similarities in the way they move too. How they hold their bodies. How they’re both so intent on protecting someone they can’t even remember.

They look like… siblings. The boy too. If he were to open his eyes, would they be as dark and kind as the wolf sword man’s eyes? She thinks they would. Yes, they look like a family, the boy and the girl and the man. The sight of them together beneath the heart-tree brings a sweet ache to her chest as if, maybe, she lost her own long before this horrible night and was left alone.

 _Alone_. She tastes the bitter word, the flavor unpleasant, certainly, but also familiar. Like fear, loneliness must’ve been her companion for a terribly long time. It’s not as easy to push aside, though. And even though she knows the wolf sword man does the right thing when he chooses to push the wheelchair and keep talking to the feral girl to keep her calm as they walk back to the courtyard, the lady can’t help that ache returning to her chest. Only this time it's not so sweet. This time that ache feels like a gaping hole.

Has she felt like this before? Like a dog watching a pack of wolves. Like an outsider. Maybe she is one. Maybe she’s not the lady of this castle at all nor its queen. Maybe she’s merely a lady-in-waiting to the actual queen or the lady wife of some lord who fought in the battle. If she were to inspect all three of them more closely, would she find wolf sigils on their clothes? Embossed on their leather gloves or boots or belts. Embroidered on the collar of their tunics. If she were to inspect herself, would she find a different sigil? One of those birds, perhaps, or a bear or a battleaxe or a sunburst. Or a kraken. Like on the breastplate of the fallen man in the godswood. Perhaps he was her husband and her body remembered what her mind did not.

When the scouts return with news, though, she finds it doesn’t matter. While they noticed countless tents in the area, all of them were raised too close to the castle to belong to anyone but an ally. Other than that, they found only snow and wilderness and bodies--and more survivors in need of help to get back to the castle, in need of care and food and beds.

The lady nods to herself. Whomever she was yesterday, today they stand surrounded by death and uncertainty, and she’s the one people turn to for guidance. So she takes her sense of duty, fills the aching hole in her chest, and returns to the wolf sword man's side and gets to work.


	2. The Guessing Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the warm welcome back! And thank you for your patience with my waffling lol. As much as I needed to not do fic for a while, it feels good to dive back in. <3

The lady pushes at the bits swimming in the watery beef barley stew cooked in a half-ruined kitchen. For hours her stomach has rumbled and, all things considered, the stew doesn’t smell half bad. Still she has no appetite. Can’t imagine the others do either, but most of them still eat methodically. Only Gentle, the fat young man sitting opposite her and the wolf sword man, eats with a healthy appetite and a relieved smile on his kind face.

After she arranged a makeshift infirmary in the great hall (now run by the maester they found cowering alone in an empty rookery), Gentle and the beautiful lady and the young mother from the crypts soon became three of the maester’s most important helpers. The young mother for her fortitude and strong stomach proved valuable when they had to hold down men in need of amputations. The beautiful lady for her proficiency in languages proved useful when treating the Essosi soldiers. And Gentle for his soft hands and softer voice proved so soothing, the great hall filled with the dying’s raspy requests for _that gentle boy_ to sit at their beds. To hold their hands and sing songs he by some magic remembered.

The lady remembered them too. When she got lost in the cleaning, stitching, and dressing of wounds, when she allowed muscle memory to take over and her weary mind to rest, she found herself humming along as if those songs were rooted so deeply in her heart they couldn’t ever truly be erased. And just as it soothed the injured and the dying, it soothed her as well. She even misses it a little now, wouldn’t mind some music to cover the wet noises of eating which squelch in the pressing silence.

No one has said a word since Gentle asked whether it was fair, really, that they were all gathered in here because of their _clothes_ , and the dwarf pointed out that they were noble and educated, born and bred to lead and rule and solve complicated matters and all those things.

Not all of them are highborn and educated, though. While they did take clothes, armor, weapons, and hands into account (calluses can say so much), effort played its part too. 

As they all worked together, groups formed quite of their own. Some of the other survivors stepped up too and suddenly the lady and the wolf sword man had a sort of… council, she supposes. For hours, they worked side by side. And once things were running somewhat smoothly, she ordered the dwarf to find them a room intact enough to function as a private dining chamber so they could finally rest their feet, fill their bellies, and discuss how to best proceed before crawling to bed.

Daylight still shone, then. But in winter the sun barely grazes the top of the sky before it descends again. By the time the food was served and they all gathered in here, only the fire in the hearth and the candelabras on the tables did their best to eat at the murky darkness in the room.

Unsure of titles and ranks, the dwarf had cleverly moved the four tables to form a square so that each seat was as important as the next. Still, people instinctively let the lady choose first. Once she was seated, the lady knight chose the seat to her left and the wolf sword man the seat to her right. The feral girl chose to stay with the boy in the wheelchair. Last the lady saw, the girl had curled up at the foot end of the bed they laid him in. Perfectly healthy, the maester said about the boy. The only mark they found on him was a frostbitten patch on his forearm. And yet they couldn’t wake him up--not even with smelling salt.

Had the girl joined them, she surely would’ve taken the empty seat next to the wolf sword man. Instead the dwarf moved briskly toward it--only to be thwarted by an older gentleman with a haughty face and a massive breastplate, who sat down without giving the dwarf as much as a glance. It took the dwarf only a stunned beat to recover, round the table, move to the next, and sit down by the man with the golden hand and the young freckled man. And there he sits now, eating stew, sipping wine, and observing the others with that sharp look in his eyes.

Observing the newcomer.

A search party combing the battlefield for survivors found her unconscious and sprawled over a fallen soldier, clinging to him so hard in her sleep they had to pry her off him. Her father, they guessed, for he was twice her age and had hair a similar color. She didn’t come to until they were almost at the gates, where she’d refused to be taken to the maester and demanded to be taken to whomever was their leader. Thanks to her once-white coat, which looks so expensive and impractical she’s likely to be the richest among them, the men obeyed.

She’s frazzled, still. Pokes at her food. Ignores her cup of wine. And she’s pretty, but the lady doubts that’s why the dwarf observes her so closely. 

Even if nothing else does, most people here make some sort of sense. The survivors found outside were armed and armored fighters. The survivors found in the crypts were not. But this pale princess… 

By the looks of her, she should’ve been with them in the crypts and yet she’s as scraped and bruised as the rest of the fighters. Her clothes are even singed. Unlike the feral girl, who's of equal height and build, she doesn’t _look_ fierce either. Her cheeks are tear-stained, the hand holding the spoon trembles, and her eyes don’t linger on something or someone for very long at all.

What was she doing out there on the battlefield? She’s an enigma. That’s why the dwarf observes her. As does the corpulent man in the fine robes. And the lady herself.

It could be an act. The princess could pretend to be a frail little bird so that they’ll all underestimate her when she might be as formidable a fighter as the feral girl.

An ungenerous thought, perhaps, but the lady can’t afford being generous with her thoughts. Any one among them could turn out to be an enemy.

Finally, the dwarf moves his attention from the pale princess to the young mother, who sits next to Gentle. After splashing more wine into his cup, the dwarf slides off his chair and almost saunters into the open space between the tables with a light in his eyes found in none of the others.

They all look exhausted.

The lady has not had an opportunity to see her own reflection in a looking glass--she doesn’t even know what she looks like, other than that she’s tall, red haired, and beautiful, if the way men look at her is anything to go by--but she can’t imagine she’d look anything but exhausted either. The dwarf, however… Oh, he finds enjoyment in this. He finds it an intriguing guessing game rather than a trauma that has left the rest of them so distraught they’ve eaten their stew in glum silence.

“Are you quite sure,” he says, drawing out the words as he peers at the young mother, “that the child in your lap is yours?”

The mother’s only reply is a sullen look. She hasn’t said much at all but enough to reveal she speaks plainly. Her manners are quiet, timid. And she studies, copies, never relaxes. But her clothes are so fine, as finely stitched as the lady’s own clothes, and her hair is thick, healthy, and shiny. She’s a street rat draped in ermine. An enigma of her own.

“He doesn’t look like you,” the dwarf says. “Not at all. He looks more like…” He walks over to the lady knight. “Her. The same blue eyes, the same blond hair… Don’t you agree. Perhaps you’re the nursemaid, perhaps--”

“He’s mine.”

The mother holds the boy closer. Around the room, the others have let their spoons rest. Some stare into their bowls of stew; others watch the dwarf and the mother as if they were knights at a tourney. 

“How do you know?”

Her warm brown eyes turn hard as flint. “A mother knows.”

“Yes. She does, doesn’t she.”

The wolf sword man raises his chin. “Is there a point to this? I’m sure we’d all rather finish our food, make our plans for tomorrow, and go to bed.”

“I’m glad you asked.” The dwarf smiles and turns in a slow circle, one hand gesturing at them, the other still holding the wine cup. “We are all strangers--even to ourselves. When we walked into this chamber, what compelled us to choose the seats we chose? Hm? Without any knowledge of ranks, titles, alliances or… marriages.” His gaze lingers on the lady before he proceeds. “Did any of you wonder?”

“There should be records, shouldn’t there?” Gentle says. “In the library or the maester’s chamber.”

“Yes, there should be. But have you seen either of those chambers, because I have. And, I assure you, there’s destruction. Walls are crumbled. Roofs caved in. There have been fires. Bookshelves are knocked over and buried under rubble. Books and documents are lying in pools of blood and melted snow. And there are still bodies that needs to be cleared out... It might take days, even weeks, to find the answers we’re seeking. If we're lucky enough the relevant documents are unscathed."

“Ravens, then! We could send ravens to other castles.” Gentle frowns. ”Unless this has affected all of Westeros, I suppose.”

“We have no ravens,” the lady says. The rookery was empty and the maester couldn’t say why. His only guess was that he must’ve thought all hope was lost and set the birds free so that they wouldn’t starve to death in their cages. “And even if we did, do you remember any castles? Do you remember who our allies are and who our enemies are? I don’t. I remember Westeros and Essos. I remember my manners, how to read and write, even some of those songs you sang. I’ve retained general knowledge about how the world works, but whenever I try remembering details, it’s just… gone. And that makes us vulnerable.”

“Aye,” the wolf sword man says. “She’s right. If we send out ravens, we’re practically inviting people to take advantage of the situation. We can’t trust anything an outsider says. And we’re hardly fit to fight off another attack. Our men have to heal and rest.”

“Indeed,” the dwarf says. “Which is why I see no reason as to why we shouldn’t try to figure things out on our own. And I can’t help but notice a few things. Such as--” He turns to the lady knight. “Would you mind, my lady, if I were to call you ser Lady Knight?”

The lady knight narrows her eyes slightly. “Ser Lady Knight?”

“Yes. Gentle might’ve become Gentle, and this lovely lady the Translator, but the rest of us have spent today being ‘you there’ or my lord or lady. It’s hardly practical. Ser Lady Knight suits you and everyone will know to whom I refer. Unless you would prefer something else?”

Face taut, shoulders tense, the lady knight waits for a moment. Watches every face in the room, almost as if she’s waiting for someone to laugh. No one does. No one does anything at all but sit there and wait, hiding yawns behind their hands, eating discreetly, drinking their wine. Finally, she releases a breath and says, this time with her head held a little higher, “I suppose that’ll do, my lord.”

“Did you perhaps wonder why Goldhand has followed you--”

“Goldhand?” The man with the golden hand scowls at the dwarf. “We’re doing that, are we? Picking the one distinguishing thing about a person. Yes, I’m sure that will turn out wonderfully. Why don’t we ask Fat Boy and Eunuch over there what they think. Or even _you_ , imp.”

The dwarf clenches his teeth before taking a calming breath. “What would you prefer, my lord?”

“Ser Lion," he says, his square jaw cocked in a nonchalant angle. "There’s a lion engraved on my golden hand. I believe it’s my sigil.”

"Ah." The dwarf bends his lips into a surprisingly pleased smile. "Have you, ser Lion, wondered why you’ve followed ser Lady Knight around all day? Why you seem drawn to her.”

“The first thing I remember was seeing her and the squire.” He nods at the freckled young man at his table. “I assumed we’d been fighting together. That we’re…” He draws in a breath, looking at his companions and, when he finds no word for them, exhales with a shrug.

“But _why_ were you fighting together? It could be coincidence, of course. Perhaps you didn’t start out fighting together at all. Perhaps you were part of different armies before we all got together to fight whatever managed to reanimate all those dead men and you happen to be among the lucky few who survived the onslaught. Or perhaps…”

The dwarf finishes his wine and puts the cup back down before walking closer to the lady’s table.

“Ser Lady Knight, would you please hold up your sword?” When she complies, he turns around to address them all while gesturing at the sword, “As you can see, she has lions on the hilt. And look at that craftsmanship. That’s exquisite work. Just like her armor. And your hand and your sword, ser Lion. But not your armor. Your armor is non-descript. Like the armor of a sellsword. A disgraced son, perhaps, using his many hours of training to earn his keep the only way he can."

“And who would hire a one handed sellsword?”

“You were skilled enough to survive this.”

“That fat craven boy survived. Gentle or whatever you call him. Does that mean he’s skilled too? I might’ve just been lucky.”

“You might’ve been. You might’ve been protected by your sister.”

Ser Lion glances at ser Lady Knight. “Sister?”

“There’s a certain family resemblance," the dwarf says, gesturing vaguely at their faces. "And your swords might not look the same, but they still look a pair. The craftsmanship… You don’t get that just anywhere--and you don’t get it cheap. You’re highborn, you share a sigil. You’re either brother and sister--or, possibly, cousins--or you’re husband and wife. The sword could’ve been a wedding gift.”

Ser Lion huffs out a laugh. “Me married to this beast of a woman?” Then his head whips to ser Lady Knight. “No offense, my lady. You’re a, uh, very... _handsome_ beast of a woman.”

The lady can’t see ser Lady Knight’s expression as her head is turned to ser Lion, but she imagines her blue eyes are as cool as her voice when she says, “He’s bothered me all day. Brother sounds about right. _Baby_ brother. He certainly is as annoying as one.”

The dwarf smiles at that. “I believe ser Lady Knight is serving a monarch here and that either her brother made a rather untimely visit, or she sent for him and whatever men he could bring to fight in this war. The only question is: which monarch? We’re several different armies coming together. There might be several monarchs in this chamber. There might even be a dragon queen from Essos.” 

Everyone’s eyes shoot to the beautiful translator. She wears a dragon brooch pinned to her chest--and the man with a long spear who’s followed her around today wears a matching sigil on his armor. It’s how they found one another. The moment they realized they shared a sigil, they stuck together. The lady has wondered herself whether the woman owns the dragon they saw. But it hasn’t been seen again and work didn’t allow her to linger on the question.

The dwarf doesn’t stop by the translator, however. No, he positions himself in front of the person sitting to the translator's right and says, “Would you please lift your hair, my lady?”

The pale princess looks almost a child, so small, so vulnerable as she searches the room with wide eyes after an ally. After someone who can tell her everything will be all right with a mere look, who feels like the closest thing she has to home in this strange world, who can be her very own wolf sword man. But he’s dead, isn’t he? The fallen soldier she clung to. The man who might've been her father. But then the translator lays her hand on the pale princess’ arm and speaks so very gently.

“There is something on your breast, concealed by your hair, my lady. I’ve seen it too. I believe it could be a sigil. Allow me?”

After waiting for a nod from the pale princess, the translator lifts the white locks with a gentle hand and tucks them behind the pale princess’ shoulder. A collective gasp flows through the room. There, attached to a chain wrapped diagonally around her torso, are three dragon heads of silver. 

“When the lady and I exited the crypts,” the dwarf says, “we saw a dragon fly away from the castle. A great big--”

Another collective gasp followed by agitated murmurs drown out the rest of his words.

“Now, now, my lords, my ladies. I don’t think we have reason to be concerned. I believe this Dragon Queen is our ally. An important ally. I walked the battlefield. I saw burned bodies. The burned bodies of the reanimated dead. Rows and rows of them. I couldn’t help but notice, Your Grace, that you’re wearing breeches. Perhaps you’re a dragon rider. It would explain why you were out on the battlefield instead of in the crypts with us.”

The pale princess straightens her posture. “A queen,” she says with wonder in her voice. “A dragon queen.”

“That would be my guess. And this lovely lady”--he smiles at the translator--”is perhaps your closest adviser while Long Spear, here, is the commander of your queensguard. And all those men out there with matching armor, are your army.”

In the dim light of the candles, the Dragon Queen’s eyes glow like a dark sea lit by wildfire. “I have an army? And a dragon.”

The lady shivers as if someone opened the window to let in a gust of winter air. The impulse to take the wolf sword man’s hand beneath the table strikes her, but she stifles it. No matter how much the dragon and its potential rider worries her, no matter what her instincts tell her, she'd be a fool to trust him, to rely on him.

What if their memories return and they remember the wolf sword man and the Dragon Queen are allies while the lady is a...

Unbidden, an image return to her of the fallen man in the godswood with blood leaked from his mouth and a broken spear sprouted like a terrible tree from his torso.

A widow. She'd be a widow. And the wolf sword man and the Dragon Queen might not be mere allies but _married_.

This whole castle might be in shambles, but it’s not ruined enough to hide the fact that it’s full of wolf sigils. It’s the wolf sword man’s home. He might be its lord or even its king. And kings marry queens. An arrangement to earn himself her armies and her dragon to fight the living dead. An easy arrangement to make too when she is so pretty and he so handsome.

Yes, that must be it, mustn’t it? The Dragon Queen should be the one to sit by his side, not the lady.

Once their memories return, she will have his loyalty while the lady is a widow without protection.

From his pocket, the dwarf pulls out the object of dull metal he held earlier and starts talking about something the lady struggles to retain. She’s only known the wolf sword man for half a day, and she’s already grown so attached to him even the thought of his being married to someone else twists her stomach. They must be newlyweds, then. They’ve yet to form that bond that would draw them to one another the way ser Lady Knight and ser Lion were drawn to one another. The way they lady herself and--

_Stop it._

Whatever she's feeling, he might not feel the same at all. It's not as if she's asked, only assumed. The lady tightens her hands into fists beneath the table and forces her attention back to the conversation.

“And how, exactly,” the haughty gentleman says, “do we know that Hand pin belongs to you? You could've found it and taken advantage of the situation. Clearly, you're enjoying yourself a great deal."

The dwarf walks closer to him and points at two small holes in his doublet. “ _Clearly_ , I've worn it before,” he says and, staring at the haughty man, re-attaches the brooch. “I’m not the only one who remembers what a Hand pin means, am I? I am someone’s Hand--and that could be my name for now. Unless”--he twists his mouth into a wry smirk--”you’re all thinking of me as the Dwarf.”

The lady ducks her head to hide how guilt warms her cheeks.

“We’ll call you Lord Hand, if that’s what you want,” the wolf sword man says. “Are we done? We could all do with some sleep. We have a lot of work to do tomorrow.”

“Just a moment more, if you would be so kind as to indulge me. We have yet to find my king. Whom do I serve? Whom does ser Lady Knight serve?”

The wolf sword man gestures at the windows. “Your king might be lying out there with the rest of the fallen, for all we know.”

The Hand holds his gaze. “Or he’s sitting right here among us.”

“What, me?” The wolf sword man lifts one corner of his mouth. “No.”

The Hand gives him an almost fatherly smile. “I know you’ve noticed the wolf sigils. I know you favored soldiers carrying it, as if they could remember their loyalties despite it all. I know you’re aware of the sword on your hip--”

“It doesn’t make me a king.”

“No, it doesn’t. You might have an older brother. Someone who did die out there on the battlefield. Someone you served, as younger brothers often do stay in their ancestral homes to serve their older brothers when they become lords or kings. But I believe _you_ are our king.”

“ _Believe_ , aye. And I don’t believe it. So why should anyone believe you over me when we have no evidence?”

“Do we need it? People follow you. People listen to you. People obey you. Isn’t that what makes a king?”

“Yes,” the corpulent man in the fine robes says, “it is. I agree with our Lord Hand. I have seen nothing today that would suggest you _aren’t_ a king, Your Grace. And, if our memories never return, if we never find out who we truly are, I believe king is what you'll find yourself being whether you believe it or not. It's whom _the people_ recognize as their ruler that matters."

Slowly, the wolf sword man turns his head to the lady. With a soft smile, she nods at him to show her support. Her support for him, yes, but for what the Hand and the eunuch say too. He has been a king today. A _good_ king, as far as she can tell.

“And, Your Grace,” the Hand says, “I believe that you are looking at your queen. Your Wolf Queen.”

The words swoop in her stomach before they land deep within and spread an exhilarating warmth in her body. “Me?” she says so breathlessly the blush returns to her cheeks. “Why?”

“It’s not by pure chance that you two happened to take command of this situation, is it? And you seem to share a connection. Everyone in here has been drawn to someone else, as if--”

“As if our bodies remember what our minds do not,” the lady whispers.

“That's a way to put it. And then there’s the tapestry.”

“What tapestry?” the wolf sword man says, his voice hoarse.

“The one behind you.”

The lady doesn't remember seeing a tapestry when she entered the chamber, but darkness already lay quiet and heavy over the castle and even with the candles lit, the chamber was too dark to see much more than the food on the tables. Now, though, the dwarf grabs a candelabrum, squeezes himself between two tables, and walks over to the wall behind them. Moving as one, the lady and the wolf sword man turn around to watch him.

“When I found this chamber,” he says, “daylight still shone through the window. And this? It was the first thing I saw.”

He lifts the candelabrum, then, showering the tapestry with golden light.

In a frame of wolves and weirwood branches, in front of a rushing river with leaping trout, a dark haired man faces a red-haired woman. He's wearing a cloak with a wolf sigil, she's wearing a cloak with a fish sigil, and a pale ribbon is wrapped around their joined hands. As if they were bride and groom at a handfasting.

They look just like the lady and the wolf sword man.


	3. A Trace of A Memory

The toddler sleeps in his mother’s lap. She’s close to joining him. Her eyes droop. Her body sags. Her head tilts, tilts, tilts, leans on Gentle’s shoulder, her brown hair falling like a curtain across her face. Gentle stiffens, but from the small smile on his face, the lady knows he’s not uncomfortable. No, he’s stiff for he worries any movement will wake the young mother. He even does a poor job suppressing a yawn, and one by one, the people in the chamber break out yawning as well. All but the wolf sword man who, holding the candelabrum himself now, is busy inspecting the tapestry in focused silence.

Finally, he draws a deep breath and says, “He’s taller than her.” He puts the candelabrum back on the table as he sits. “I’m not.”

“Well,” the Hand says, returning to his favorite spot in the middle of the room, “it wouldn’t be the first time someone has taken creative liberties with a ruler’s height.”

The wolf sword man shakes his head. “He could be my brother. He could be an ancestor. A king from a song. He could be anyone--and so could she. The tapestry proves nothing.”

“You have to admit, Your Grace, that the likeness--”

“And why do I have to admit that? What will it do? Should I take her to bed, is that what you’re suggesting?”

The Hands eyes flit between the lady and the wolf sword man while her mind is flooded by images that bring an odd kind of heat to the pit of her belly. Soft warm skin sliding against hers. Strong hands gripping her hips. Muscles playing beneath her palms. Beard rasping against her lips, her cheek, her neck, her--

The scarf wrapped around her throat suffocates her. Loosening it would be too revealing a gesture. Instead she suffers the discomfort and, soothing herself by rubbing the hollow of her palm with her thumb, manages to remain unaffected without despite the turmoil within. 

“No,” the Hand drawls. “Not at all. That would hardly be advisable.”

The lady relaxes her hands, keeps her posture straight. “What _are_ you suggesting, Lord Hand?”

“We need leaders and--”

“And you as their Hand no doubt,” the haughty man says before turning his head to her. “If my lady doesn’t mind.” Once she’s nodded her approval, he continues, “I believe this man saw the lord and lady lead today, found this tapestry and the Hand pin, and saw his chance to dupe us all. How else would a man like him get a position of power? Those holes in his doublet are even less proof than the tapestry. He could’ve made them the moment he found the pin. Now, I find my lady and lord a trust-worthy sort of people, but I cannot extend that trust to this supposed _Lord Hand_ , who might be nothing more than a well-dressed jester and conniving opportunist. My memories might be lost, but I have not forgotten what they say about your kind. You’re marked as _monsters_. What king would--”

“That’s enough!” Ser Lion bangs his golden hand into the table so hard the plates rattle. The mother starts awake, her child too, his little mouth falling open with a cry. As the mother tries comforting her son, Gentle catches the wolf sword man’s eye. With a quick gesture, the wolf sword man allows them to leave and Gentle ushers mother and child from the room while ser Lion has risen from his seat to stare down at the haughty man. “You don’t speak to him that way.”

With great dignity, the haughty man rises to his full height too. He’s almost as tall as ser Lion, certainly bigger, and has two hands, a sword on one hip and a dagger on the other. “I seem to recall hat you, _ser_ , didn’t speak favorably of him earlier. Imp, wasn't it?"

“That’s different.”

“And why is that?”

“Because--” Puzzled frown etched deeply on his forehead, ser Lion stares at the man as if an answer will fall out of his open mouth if only he scowls hard enough. Then the air rushes out of him and he sinks down on his chair with a mumbled, “I don’t know.”

Head bowed, the Hand peers at ser Lion through the curls of his fringe. With every word the haughty man uttered earlier, the excited light in him dimmed further and further until he looked like a kicked puppy. But now, as ser Lion offers him nothing but kindness in his gaze, the light returns to the Hand's eyes as he lifts his head and shakes the hair from his face. As he stands tall, once more at ease at the center of the room.

The lady has seen this before. She's sure of it. A boy hanging his head in shame at an insult--and another boy rushing to defend him. A brother.

Yes, that's it, isn't it?

"Because..." She smiles kindly at ser Lion. "You're his brother. You may insult him all you like, but gods protect the man who tries doing the same."

The potential brothers look at one another and even though the share neither features nor sigils, neither dismisses the suggestion. There _is_ something there. She wasn't imagining it. Something their subconscious knows even if they don't.

“The family of lions might be loyal bannermen to the family of wolves,” the lady says. "Considering your ages, you might've grown up at the same time as the wolf king's father. One of you might've even been fostered here, which would--"

"Aye, _might've_ ," the wolf sword man says. “We're wasting time playing a pointless game of speculation when we all know we shouldn't act on any of our theories. If we turn out to be wrong…”

Whatever consequences his words inspired everyone to imagine, it leaves them quiet for a long moment. The wind squeezes itself through the shutters and plays with the light of the candelabras, casting dancing shadows over walls and floors and pondering people. Outside lies silence and darkness. By now most will have retired to their beds and cots and pallets while this council still sits here and works their tired minds, trying to solve an unsolvable problem. The wolf sword man is right. It is a pointless game. They should adjourn, really, but before she’s had a chance to suggest it, the corpulent man stands, hands tucked into the trumpet sleeves of his fine robes.

“My lord, my lady,” he says with a graceful bow of his head. “I do not know who is Hand nor who is king. But I do know we need leaders. And I can’t imagine we’d find two people better suited under these circumstances--"

“What about me?” The Dragon Queen remains seated but does tilt her chin a little higher. “I am a queen. I can lead.”

“You are a guest, Your Grace,” the corpulent man says gently. “A most respected and esteemed guest whose council will be much appreciated, I‘m sure, but still a guest. The people will want to be led by one of their own and this is ostensibly this fine lord’s castle.” He gestures at the wolf sword man before tucking his hand back into his sleeve. “What happened here was nothing short of unspeakable horror. Countless lives have been lost. Magic seems to be at play. No one remembers as much as their own name. It’s the perfect breeding ground for chaos--and yet, survivors have been carried from battlefield to infirmary. They have been patched up, fed, and given a place to sleep. As have we all. People have been put to work and that has kept panic at bay. All thanks to you two keeping a level head and taking charge--and quite naturally too, I might add. Does it matter, then, whether or not you actually are king and queen? You act as if you are, people treat you as if you are, and I don't see why that has to change. The last thing we need right now is a power struggle. Perhaps we should put it to a vote?” With an amiable mask on his face, he glances around the room. “A show of hands, if you don’t mind, my lords, my ladies. All in favor?”

A few looks are exchanged, but then one hand after another finds the air until only the three dragon sigil-adorned people remain. The Translator and Long Spear already look to the Dragon Queen for their cue and soon everyone else looks at her too, waiting and waiting and waiting--and most likely remembering the things the lady can’t help but remember herself: the dragon that woman might be able to control and the spear-carrying soldiers that are hers and the Essosi men with the curved swords who might be hers too, for the Translator alone knew their tongue. If she wanted a power struggle, it wouldn't last for long.

When the woman finally raises her hand, more than one breath of relief is drawn.

“Then it is decided,” the Dragon Queen says. “You are our king for no--”

The door rumbles with a series of steady knocks. After a nod from the wolf sword man, ser Lady Knight moves to the door to open it. Outside waits a wild looking fellow with bushy red hair and beard, carrying a furry bundle in his arms, and an enormous wolf with fur as pale as snow and eyes as red as blood. Ser Lady Knight’s hand flies to the hilt of her sword. Chairs scrape, clothes rustle and armor clinks as men stand, and weapons sing as they’re drawn from their sheathes.

The wild fellow dismisses their vigilance with a harrumph and a wave of his paw. “Sit down. If we wanted to hurt you, you’d all already be dead. Have you seen this beast? He’d tear your throat out in a heartbeat if he was in the mood.” Corners of his mouth tugged down, he takes in the room with a hum of appraisal as he steps inside. “You highborn twats sure can build things. I’ll give you that.”

“How can we help you, my lord?” the lady asks.

The man grins down at the wolf. “You hear that, boy? I’m a lord now. We better find me a castle to sleep in. Some pretty lady to warm my bed, eh?” The wolf stares up at him, unblinking. “Bah. Don’t try getting a laugh out of this one. It’d be easier squeezing milk from a mammoth’s dick.”

When he barks out a laugh at his own joke, it weakens whatever intimidating impression he first made and the fighters in the room gingerly sheathe their weapons and sit back down. All but the wolf sword man, who once more remain on his feet, eyes locked not on the wildling but the wolf--and _of course_. It looks just like the pommel of his sword.

"Come here, boy," he says, dropping to his knees. When the wolf obeys and pads over on silent paws, the wolf sword man smiles like a child experiencing his first summer snow. “I think he’s mine,” he murmurs, scratching the wolf behind his good ear. "I have a _wolf_."

The other ear, the lady notices, is torn and crusted with dried blood. Oh, the poor thing! Only when her fingers graze soft fur does she realize she’s reached out to assess the damage. With a gasp, she snatches her hand back. But the snow-white wolf turns to her, lays his head in her lap, and looks up at her with those red, red eyes that struck fear in every person in this chamber. She should feel it too, that fear, shouldn't she? She should be afraid. But, strangely, this time there's no fear for her to push aside. His head feels so right in her lap and her hand knows just where to scratch and pat to make the beast close his eyes and when she carefully examines his torn ear, he doesn't even flinch. He _trusts_ her, this mighty direwolf, and she trusts him.

“Well!” the Hand says. “The wolf has spoken. If you two are not husband and wife, I shall eat my jester’s hat. Bells and all.” He cocks an eyebrow at the haughty man. “I’m sure I have one somewhere in my belongings.”

The wolf sword man shakes his head at him, but the lady imagines she can see a hint of a smile on his lips. “I think it’s time for bed," he says. "We’ll continue tomorrow.”

“Yes, we could all do with some rest,” the Dragon Queen says as she stands, her advisers standing too.

The others, though, remain seated until the wolf sword man and the lady get to their feet. They even wait for the two of them to exit the chamber before they do the same, some of them filtering off in different directions to whatever chamber or bed they claimed earlier in the day--or even to the maester for salves and tinctures--others lingering for a moment to watch the ginger fellow hand the wolf sword man the furry bundle.

“He was dragging it with him when he found me," he says. "Then he led me here. To you. Think it’s yours.”

The wolf sword man accepts the bundle and shakes it out. It’s a cloak. A fine looking one too, only a bit dirty and blood-spattered and torn.

“I can mend it for you,” she says, holding up one of the straps dangling from the last stich keeping it attached to the cloak.

"If it's mine." He shrugs it on. “How does it look?"

“Hmm…” She adjusts the way it fits over his shoulders, biting her lip as she looks him over. It looks almost like her own cloak. Not twins, no, complementing and similar enough they had to be made by the same hand. Like ser Lion and ser Lady Knight's swords. A pair. “It suits you," she says. "I think it could be yours."

He gives her that soft kind of smile again, but butterflies have barely begun to flutter in her stomach before they’re squashed by the booming of boots and the clanking of armor. The ginger fellow gazes up at the lady knight breathlessly, his blue eyes wide and sparkling as if he's never seen anything more grand.

Ignoring him entirely, the lady knight bows to the lady. “Your Grace, I would like to offer my services. It would be my honor to stand guard outside your door tonight.”

“You should sleep, ser,” the lady says. “You’ve been fighting all night. You should probably see the maester too.”

“I assure you, Your Grace. I am perfectly capable of doing my duty. I’m not even particularly tired.”

She holds her head proudly, hand back on the hilt of her sword as if to prove she’s ready to strike down anyone daring to come close. But as formidable as she looks, so tall and broad and strong, dark circles lie like bruises beneath her hollow eyes and actual bruises paint the skin of her cheekbones a red that’s already deepening into blue. She has cuts and scrapes as well. It would cruel to accept her offer.

The lady takes a deep breath and pretends to yawn behind her hand. Ser Lady Knight’s nostrils flare and she blinks and blinks and blinks, lips pressed together hard to do only a marginally better job at hiding a yawn than Gentle did earlier.

The wolf sword man grins at her. “You were saying?”

“I was saying,” she says, shooting him a pointed look, “that since I assume Her Grace won’t be sharing a chamber with a man who might or might _not_ be her husband, that means she’ll sleep alone and unprotected.”

“You’re right. But, if you stay up all night, who’s going to protect her tomorrow? Or are you claiming you'll be able to do that too without any sleep?"

It takes ser Lady Knight a breath to reply. “Then I’ll sleep in the hallway. Outside her door.”

“You need proper rest. How are you supposed to take care of someone else if you refuse to take care of yourself? I’ll have the wolf stay with her. How's that?"

As if to support his master’s words, the huge wolf presses himself close to the lady’s side, and she silks her fingers through his thick, soft fur in slow motions that soothe her as much as they must soothe the wolf.

The lady knight hums, eyes slightly narrowed. “He does seem like a loyal beast."

“I’ll walk her to her chambers myself,” the wolf sword man says, “and I’ll treat her as if she were my good sister. Not my wife. I promise.”

Still, not until the lady accepts the suggestion with a nod of her head, does ser Lady Knight bid them good night and leave for her own chamber, the wild man trotting after her like a horse after an apple.

"I think someone's a bit smitten," the lady says, leaning into the wolf sword man just a little.

"Aye," he replies, a smile playing in the corners of his mouth, in the warmth of his eyes lingering on hers for a beat too long.

"Don't you two look sweet." In the doorway to the small dining chamber, the Dragon Queen still stands, her advisers at attention behind her. The torchlight in the hallway softens all that pale white of her hair and skin and coat into a buttery yellow. "Your cloaks even match. Did you notice?"

The lady glances down her body, feigning surprise to hide how they thrill her, all these little signs pointing at the wolf sword man being hers. “Perhaps a little.”

The Dragon Queen purses her lips as if to fight an amused smile. “I hate to detain you, but if you have a moment… I’m worried. About my own people. People who are waiting for their queen to return to them. Only I don’t know where they are. I don’t know whose queen I am.” She shakes her head sadly, hands clasped primly before her. “If there’s a raven from... _anywhere_ , I trust you will share it with me. I’d like to return home as soon as I can. Wherever home is...”

“Of course, Your Grace,” the wolf man says. “You’re our guest and ally. And, considering everything, I believe transparency is our best course of action.”

“I’m glad we agree. Sleep well.”

With a benevolent smile, the Dragon Queen leaves with her advisers and now, at last, the lady and the wolf sword man are alone. Truly alone. Just the two of them and the wolf and the gently flickering torches on the wall and the muffled sounds of the great hall still winding through the castle. When he catches her eye and proffers his arm, she feels almost a bride taking her husband’s arm for the first time to be led away from the festivities to the chamber they’ll now share. 

The wolf sword man would never agree to a bedding ceremony, she thinks. No, he’d never allow another man to touch her and rip off her clothes against her will. It feels so true, she can’t help but wonder whether that happened. Whether, maybe, it’s the trace of a memory so weak by whatever magic stole it, it presents itself as an assumption. 

She can’t bring herself to ask. She can’t even bring herself to ask him whether he believes she might be his good sister, his brother’s wife, when that might very well be the actual truth. Instead they walk down the hallways together in a silence that shifts between comfortable and, truth be told, a little awkward. Sometimes she’ll look at him to break that silence only to find him already glancing at her. Then they share a shy smile and look away and stay silent until they stop outside the chamber reserved for her.

The Hand and the corpulent man searched through the castle earlier to assign rooms to the leaders and their council. As many chambers were in disarray, some will have to share. But she and the wolf sword man got separate chambers at the end of a private hallway. Separate but close. He’ll be just next door. If anything happens, she’ll call for him and he’ll be there--and that feels like a trace of a memory too.

“It was clever of you,” he says, putting a respectable step between them. (She already misses his arm.) “Pretending to yawn.”

“She looked exhausted--and so do you. You should see the maester.”

“Nah. He’s got his hands full. I’ll see him tomorrow.”

“You might be injured.”

“I’m fine. All I really want is a bath, but I can’t really ask people to fill a tub for me, can I.”

“I heard there are hot pools in the godswood.”

“Yeah, I don’t think I can make it that far.” He laughs, leaning one shoulder against the wall. “I’ll fall asleep halfway there.”

“You can’t go to bed without having your wounds cleaned. Let me help you.”

“I’m not going to make you run all the way to the maester for supplies.”

“I already have everything I need.”

He raises his eyebrows, tucking his head back a touch. "You do?"

“I watched you today,” she says, softly, inching the smallest step closer. “How you kept putting other people before yourself. I knew this would happen. You would never ask the maester for his time when he has other patients who need his care. So I had supplies sent to my room before we went to eat. I’ll tend to you and the wolf. I think he needs stitches.”

“You can do that?”

“I helped the maester today. I already knew what to do. I wasn't squeamish either. He was certain I've done it before. Cared for soldiers. That it wasn't our first battle. I’m no maester, that’s true, but as long as you don’t have a life-threatening injury, I think I'll manage. So,” she says, pushing the door ajar, letting out the dim light and faint warmth of a hearth lit hours ago when this room was prepared for her, “if you trust me…”

“Do you trust _me_? We’d be alone in there.”

“I do. I don’t know why, but I do. Besides,” she says, smiling, and takes a step backwards into the room, the wolf slinking past her, “if you try anything, I’ll tell ser Lady Knight and she’ll make you live to regret it.”

He breathes out a quick laugh. “Aye, I don’t doubt that. But it wouldn't be appropriate. You and me alone in there."

"No one would know."

"I would know."

"You're a very honorable man," she says, masking her disappointment with the smile that's yet to leave her lips. “Good night, then, Your Grace.”

“Good night,” he says, voice hoarse.

Neither of them moves. The little hearthlight reaching them gleams in his beard, in his hair, in his warm brown eyes. His chest moves in time with hers as they share the air in carefully drawn breaths. She can smell him, still. Beneath all that dirt. As if she's burrowed her nose into the crook of his neck and breathed him in so often, so deeply, she carries that scent with her, always. She wants to do it now, tug him close and cling to him and never let him go. She must've worried down there in the crypts. Worried for him. Prayed for him to live. Prayed that she would see him again. And now her mind has forgotten him, but not her body, not her heart--

“The fire is dying.” The words spill out of him like wine splashing over the rim of a full cup. He blinks. Swallows. Finds himself. “I should help you. Get it started again. And I, uh”--he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, eyes drifting to the side--”I really should make sure nothing’s hiding in there before I leave you alone.”

“You really should,” she murmurs. “Ser Lady Knight would’ve insisted on it.”

“Aye, she would’ve."

Still, as if propriety and honor hold too tight a grip on his feet, he lingers at the door. The lady turns around, then, finds the small basket of supplies, the pitcher of water, the wash basin. Busies herself as she listens to him. Listens for his footfalls. Holds her breath. Listens. _Waits_. Listens. Wonders whether, perhaps, she wears her every thought and feeling plainly on her face for all to read--and it's all unwanted by him. He did protest every time someone suggested they were married. Perhaps it's not propriety and want he's torn between but duty and discomfort. Her heart sinks in her chest, a slow steady painful fall, but before it's reached the bottom, she hears him. Hears him moving, closing the door, taking another step, two, three, as he joins her in her chamber. Her heart leaps back up to its proper place and races so quickly her cheeks burn. But she keeps her back to him, busies herself as she listens. Listens to him as he tends to the fire, lights the candles, shrugs off his cloak, and removes his sword-belt as if he belongs in there, in the near dark with her. As if they've done this a thousand times before.


	4. Snow and Ghost

She sings as she patches up the wolf. And even though the fire in the hearth is now roaring and all the candles are lit and neither monsters nor men hide beneath the bed or in the shadows, he finds himself sinking down in a chair when he should bid her good night, leave this warm, golden room, and drag himself to the cold, empty bed waiting for him in the cold, empty dark of a stranger’s chamber.

He’s exhausted, that’s all. It’s not her song that lures him to sit, kick off his boots, free his throbbing feet, and wiggle some life back into his toes. It’s not her song that pulls a smile from his lips and lulls him into a state so sweet, so relaxing his mind grazes the fringes of sleep. It’s not _her._ He’s tired, just tired, so bleeding tired...

He jolts awake when something warm and wet presses against his cheekbone. Squints at the copper glow of her hair, the petal pink of her lips, the winter blue of her eyes that crinkle with a smile as warm as the sensation blooming in his chest. The smell of rosewater mingles with the stench clinging to him. He’s yet to bathe. Brushed the worst off his clothes and washed his hands before sitting down to eat, that’s all.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

Sorry for dirtying her chair, for stinking up her pretty chamber, for falling asleep. Sorry for making her stay up to take care of him when she must be tired too. But she only shakes her head fondly at him and keeps cleaning his wound, dabbing it dry, and smearing it with some ointment that smells like honey. All with a touch so gentle he bears the stinging pain with a lazy smile spread on his face.

“How are your feet?”

“Don’t go near them.” He pulls his feet back and tucks them beneath the chair. “The stink will kill you.”

She breathes out through her nose, eyes glittering. “Any blisters?”

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

He lies, of course. Can’t give her a reason to kneel by his feet and wash them. His body will react, he knows it will. It does now too, really. Just a rush of blood every so often, too infrequent and random to build more than the slightest, easily hidden swell beneath his folded hands. It’s because he’s sleepy and relaxed--not because he has the control of a green boy.

Humming to herself, she picks up one of his hands and examines it. He moves the other discreetly and thinks about all things cold and dead while she finds scrapes to clean, and dry and cracked skin to massage wool fat into. Gods, she smells good, her face so close to his he could easily cup the back of her head and--

No, those are foolish thoughts to indulge in when he’s in this state.

Perhaps he _is_ a green boy. As much as the others might think he’s married to the beautiful lady with the red hair, he knows deep down it’s not true. He knows it for every time he looks at her he might be filled with a strong need to protect, aye, and an attraction so powerful he has to remind himself to stop staring--but underneath those feelings lurks a deep kind of shame. As if she’s… forbidden.

His brother’s wife he’s sworn to protect. Aye, he’s certain of it. His taller, more handsome brother. The crown prince who got the kingdom and the hand of this wonderful, clever woman. The now king who might've fallen, aye, but who could be among the injured in the infirmary or even lost on the battlefield beneath a pile of bodies, waiting for help, while he, the little brother who's part of his kingsguard, is tended to by his wife.

Maybe he is green. Sworn to celibacy. Laid an oath to hold no lands, take no wife, father no children, for why would he want another when--

He groans, pressing a finger to an aching spot above his left eye.

“Did I hurt you?” she asks.

“No, it’s fine.” Drawing in a deep breath, he sits up properly in the chair and looks around the room for a distraction. The wolf has stretched out in front of the fire, dozing like a great big dog rather than a beast who should be hunting outside with his pack. “I wonder what he’s called. The wolf.”

She lays down his hand and picks up the other one, glancing at the beast. “Something white, perhaps.”

“Snow,” he says, slowly, tasting the name. “Frost?”

“Mm. Or Winter.” She scoops up salve from a jar with two fingers and rubs it over his knuckles. “Mist, Moon, Ghost, Bones--”

“Ghost,” he says, chuckling. “Who’d name their pet Ghost? Bit foreboding.”

“What would you prefer, then?”

She rubs more salve onto his skin and he really could be doing that himself, couldn’t he? Feels good, though, to be pampered. And he’s so tired. Too tired to protest. Too tired to wipe that stupid lazy besotted smile off his face when he looks at her after all, at the black of her lashes against the pink of her cheeks, at the faintest spray of freckles across her handsome nose, at the gentle curve of her mouth as if she's enjoying this as much as he does.

“Don’t know,” he mumbles. “Snow?” He tastes the name again. _Snow_. Aye, it feels right. “His name is Snow.”

“Snow,” she says with a nod and gets to her feet. “There’s blood on your sleeve. Right here.” She brushes her finger over the slope of his upper arm, across a tear in the fabric. (It makes him shiver.) “I’d like to look at it.”

“It can wait until tomorrow.”

“No, it really can’t. If you need stitches, it must be tended to now or _you’ll_ be the one who can’t take care of others because you neglected yourself.”

Chuckling quietly under his breath, he shakes his head. “You really are clever, aren’t you. Using my own words against me.”

“It might get infected, Your Grace,” she says, softer now. “So it’s either me or the maester. Your choice.”

He should ask her to get the maester then, should do anything but undress in her chamber when they’re all alone among all these candles by a bed that looks divine, but his body acts on its own, lifts him from the chair, and moves his fingers to the laces of his doublet. Shoots her a glance. She’s clasped her hands behind her back and stands there, waiting, with her gaze averted out of respect.

He shrugs off his doublet and starts loosening the laces of his undershirt. “You don’t have to call me that.” He pulls the shirt over his head, sucking in air through his teeth when the fabric glued to his wound by blood is ripped away. “Your Grace.”

“You were named king.”

“Aye, but we’re alone.” He drapes the undershirt over the back of the chair. “And I might not be one.”

“But I don’t know your name.” She lifts her gaze to him. “What else should I--”

The rest of her sentence vanishes in a sharp gasp. She stumbles back a step, staring at him with glassy eyes set in a face drained of color. He takes a step toward her reflexively; she shies away from him, her breaths coming short and quick and trembling.

“Who are you?” she whispers, pressed against the door now. “ _What_ are you?” Her eyes dart to the fireplace, to the fire poker leaning against the wall, to his chest, to his face, to the wolf who sleeps on, unperturbed. Back to his face. “Are you one of them?”

He scrunches up his face, shaking his head. But then her gaze flits down to his chest again and now he looks too and nothing makes any sense and the world tilts and blurs and blood rushes, impossibly, in his ears when he shouldn’t be able to stand here, talking, breathing, fainting. His hand shoots out, fumbling for something in the encroaching dark, finding soft wool, a bony shoulder, a warm body to lean into while waiting for his ears to stop ringing and his vision to return and his knees to find the little strength left in his undead body. He shouldn't be here. It's impossible.

_Maybe I’m the ghost._

“You’re warm,” she whispers, the breath wafting over his cheek warm too. He slides his arm around her back and leans his forehead on her shoulder, blinking and blinking while the world turns solid again. “Are you all right? Can you stand?”

 _No_ , he wants to say. But he steels himself with a deep breath and lets go of her after all. Stands there before her half dressed and clammy, breathing as if he just ran from the undead monsters when the opposite is more likely. He’s one of them. No one can survive wounds like that. 

“Maybe it’s not that deep,” she says, quietly, as if his fears are written on his face. “Maybe it looks worse than it is.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re _warm_.” She moves her hand toward his chest, stops, pulls it back an inch, looks into his eyes, and waits for consent. He gives it in a tremulous little nod of his head, and closes his eyes with a rushing exhale when her hand cups the scar slashed across his heart. “I can feel your heart beating,” she whispers. “You’re not dead, are you? You’re not one of them?”

But how can he know? Maybe all those long-dead men and women and children whose clothes had become tattered over skin and flesh and bones which had eroded from endless walking through winter winds and snow storms despite broken ankles and torn throats and cracked skulls, maybe they had all been warm. Maybe magic kept their hearts beating in their chests.

He opens his eyes again and looks helplessly into hers. Begs her wordlessly to tell him it’ll be all right. That _he_ will be.

That he's good.

“They were invading us,” she says, soothing him with slow, light brushes of her thumb. “And whoever gave them life, resurrected the dead in the crypt as well. I saw the skeletons myself. How they’d broken out of their graves. But you. You had the wolf sword. You look like that girl and boy from the godswood. You look like the man in the tapestry. And that wolf, he’s yours. This is your _home_. You weren’t invading us. You were _protecting_ us. From them."

“I hope you’re right.” He swallows thickly. “I really do.”

“Do you remember anything? Anything at all.”

“No.”

“Do you feel alive?”

He _is_ warm. He's breathing. His blood pumps through his body. And the smell of her, the feel of her, fill him with the most confusing blend of frustration and relief and yearning that leaves a deep ache in this scarred heart of his that beats beats beats against her palm.

“Aye. I do.”

 _So_ alive.

She locks gazes with him, holds his unwaveringly. “Do you want to hurt me?”

“No.”

_Never._

"And the others? Do you want to hurt them?"

"No. I don't."

Not unless they hurt her. Her or the fighting girl or the boy in the wheelchair.

“Then…” She watches her fingers stroking the gnarly edges of his scar for a breath before meeting his eyes again, steadily. “I trust you.”

When she steps away from him, he staggers forward as if her touch was the only thing holding him upright. He even cups his scar himself in a silly attempt to keep the imprint of her palm on his skin. Thankfully, she doesn't see it, has already moved back to the wash basin where she pours in fresh water while ordering him to sit so she can finish patching him up.

The wolf sleeps on. She works in silence. The fatigue shock chased away for a moment returns to his body. Dead men don’t get tired either, do they? Dead men don’t bleed and sleep and eat. Dead men don’t ache with the need to pull this redhaired lady into their arms and cling to her as if his last thought, before his memories were stolen, was about her.

It must’ve been. He must’ve known her, before. She must’ve been the last thought on his mind before the battle and the first one after it. 

_Will I ever see her again?_

_Did she live?_

She’s done with him much too soon. Smears something pine-scented across some bruises on his back. Helps him into his undershirt. Washes her hands while he watches her, listens to the water drip and splash, when he should leave. Should’ve left long ago. Should’ve gone to the maester. 

“You should lock the…” _Barn. Wall. Stone. Wood--_ How long have they been awake now? He feels in his cups, sluggish. Struggles to find even the simplest words. Gestures vaguely at the damn thing.

“Door?” she says.

“Aye.” He laughs breathily. “Ghost’ll keep you safe, though.”

“I thought his name was Snow,” she says, smiling.

“What did I say?” He rubs one eye. “Seven hells, I’m tired. What did we decide to call him?”

Her smile grows, dazzling. “Snow.”

“Right. _Snow_ will protect you. I promise. He’ll watch over you when I can’t.”

He can’t know that’s true and yet his voice is full of conviction and his words felt true on his tongue. Familiar. As if he’s said them before, more than once. To her. But the edge between wakefulness and sleep has blurred. Everything he does and says feels almost surreal, like a dream, and in dreams even impossible things make some sort of sense. He can't trust his hunches. Not now. Not when they could just as well be wishful thinking. He sighs, rubbing at his other eye as though that would bring him clarity.

“You need sleep,” she says.

“Aye. We both do.”

Still, they stay where they are, barely an arm’s length apart. He’s not even laced up his undershirt. Her cloak is slung over the footboard of the bed. Her sleeves are folded up to expose slender forearms. A lock has escaped the braided bun at the back of her head. She looks wan and pale and half-asleep and so incredibly beautiful he feels his body leaning toward her, just a touch.

If she asked him to stay with her, to curl up in bed with her, to hold her so she’d feel safe, he’s not so sure he’d be able to say no.

_Don’t ask._

She licks her lips, gaze dropping to his chest before meeting his eyes again.

_Please ask._

“I won’t tell anyone,” she says and a breath rushes out of him. “About your scar. It will be our secret.”

“Thank you.”

“Maybe it was the boy. In the wheelchair? Who healed you. Gentle thinks he’s some sort of wizard.”

He laughs. “Aye, he might be.”

“Maybe you got hurt and he healed you before you could…"

_Die._

“Maybe.”

She smiles again. Cups one of her hands with the other. Massages her palm with her thumb.

She’s nervous. _He_ makes her nervous. That helps. It makes it easy to turn around, to walk to the door, to grab the handle, to turn around again, halfway, and remember his manners.

“Good night,” he says. “If you need me…” He juts his thumb at the wall separating their chambers.

“I know.”

She takes a step closer to him, gaze moving in a fluid loop from his eyes to his lips to his chest and back to his eyes. Her cheeks are flushed. Her lips are parted. She licks them. She looks nervous, aye, but not _scared_. She looks...

He runs his fingers along the smooth metal of the door handle. He could ask her. _Do you want me to stay?_ He could stay on the floor. Roll up in his cloak next to the wolf. It’s good enough for him. But she wouldn’t accept that, would she? Knowing her (if he does, from what he’s seen today at least, from what he feels deep inside him), she’s too caring to let him sleep on the floor. She’d insist on sharing the bed.

It wouldn’t be appropriate. He would take advantage. And yet, if anyone found out, he’d get hollers and slaps on the back and jokes about being a lover. She’d be the one to bear the shame.

That does it. Determined, he nods to himself. “Good night, my lady.”

He even remembers to bow before slipping through the door and dragging himself to that cold, empty room after all and collapsing in the cold, empty bed. Heat lingers in the air. Someone lit a fire earlier in the day and flashes of red still glow in the embers. Some light from the braziers outside squeezes through the cracks in the shutters.

His boots, cloak, doublet, sword belt, and weapons are still in her chamber. Part of him is too, he thinks. Watching over her somehow. (Finding comfort in the fact that she is whole and safe and alive.)

He grabs the corner of the coverlet he’s lying on and tugs it over part of himself. Feels the world spinning and his aching body growing heavier and heavier until, finally, he sleeps.

When he wakes the world is still dark, but not as quiet, and his mind is filled with images of her. Red hair glittering with melting snowflakes. A shy smile bathed in firelight. Cheeks that turn pink when their gazes meet (hers always skittering away before his does). That shy smile twitching with the need to grow when he laughs (a need she doesn't give into). Fragments of dreams he scrambles after with weak hands, trying to keep them with him, while it slowly dawns on him that he doesn’t remember anything before yesterday. And by the time he sits up and feels the flagstones beneath his stocking feet, those fragments are gone too.

All that is left is a worry for the fighting girl and the wizard she protected, a sense of duty already looming over him for he must care for all those strangers beneath a roof that’s possibly his, and a longing for a woman he hopes still is next door. Waiting for him to wake, to escort her to breakfast or whatever time it is, because despite the strange scars on his body, she still trusts him. 

Whoever started the now thoroughly dead fire left him water as well and a box of soft gray soap. After lighting a few candles, he cleans every part of himself, even lathers up his hair and rinses it out with the last of the water, and turns to the wardrobe. He finds it full of clothes that all seem to be his size. Clothes with a wolf sigil. Another cloak with a pelt over the shoulders and the sigil found all over the castle embossed on the leather straps. They might be his then, these clothes, this chamber. He dresses in clean clothes and combs back his hair into a bun. Still doesn’t know what he looks like, but he’s not wasting time finding a mirror when she might be waiting for him.

The torches in the hallway either still burn or have been lit anew. If she’s on the other side of that door, she’s quiet.

He knocks. Waits. Smiling already when he hears movement. Tampering it down so that she won’t see him grinning like a fool first thing.

“Who is it?” she asks, voice muffled by the door.

“It’s… me. The man? The…” He cringes. “King.”

His heart skips a beat when she opens the door, stumbles into a racing when he sees her. She wears her hair in a simple braid resting on her shoulder and a dress new to him. And she smiles. Shy at first but then it blossoms. Blossoms at seeing _him_.

(He grins like a fool after all.)

"Good morning," she says and steps aside to let him in.

The most awful thought strikes him then. Selfish and vile and despicable--and easy too for he doesn't remember the brother she must've married. He doesn't remember loving him all his life. He doesn't even remember his name. He's not his brother. Just a husband. A nameless, faceless husband.

Still, it's an awful thought and he knows he'll regret it once his memories returns. But in this moment, gods have mercy on his selfish soul, he can't help but hope that that husband is dead.


	5. A Family Meeting

She woke hours ago. After breaking her fast, checking up on everything, and helping out in the infirmary--all with the snow-white wolf by her side for like most of the fighters who didn't end up in the maester's care, ser Lady Knight still sleeps--the lady returned to her assigned chamber and investigated while the wolf took a nap by the fire. She looked through every drawer, the wardrobe, the pockets of every dress, and the small boxes on the mantelpiece. She even went down on all fours to peer under the furniture.

Every little thing of interest, she gathered on the bed. It’s a sorry collection. While she found blank parchment and a book with a leather bookmark placed roughly in the middle of a story that looked romantic in nature, she found no notes, no journal, no raven scrolls. Not a single written thing that could help her understand the person residing in this chamber.

A chill went through her when she realized what it could mean. What if this kingdom made temporary peace with other kingdoms to stand a chance against the greatest threat Westeros had ever seen: an army of undead soldiers. Soldiers who needed no food, no sleep, no rest at all. Soldiers who could plow on no matter the injury so long as the spell reanimating them remained unbroken. What if the woman residing in this chamber, one of the finest chambers in the whole castle, knew she’d no longer be safe in her own home and decided to destroy (or at least hide) anything private lest it could be used against her, her loved ones, and the people of this land.

When she shares that worry with the wolf sword man, he watches her with concern lining his brow.

“I’ve seen so many sigils by now,” she says, “and until Gentle can find out what they mean, we have no way of determining who’s loyal to whom. Which means we can’t trust anyone.”

He tugs up one corner of his mouth. “Not even each other? Are you suggesting we could be enemies?”

“No, I don’t believe we are. I found these as well.” She gestures at the trinkets laid out on the coverlet: buttons, clasps, rings, necklaces, and pins shaped either like wolves or like fish. “It doesn’t have to mean anything, but it does point to this being the chamber of the woman in the tapestry. Doesn’t it?”

“Aye, it’s possible.”

She opens the door to the wardrobe. In there, among a collection of modest dresses in different shades of gray, hangs a gown of deep blue velvet. When she pulls it out, the embroidery on the chest glimmers in the lights of candle and hearth. It’s a sigil--the wolf sword man’s sigil; the sigil embossed on the leather straps of the cloak he now wears--in pearls and beads and silver thread. She holds the dress up against her body to show it off--and to show too how, despite the fact that she’s taller than most women, the skirts fall all the way to the floor.

“I tried it on,” she says and the wolf sword man’s eyes move from the wolf embroidery to her face. “It fits me perfectly. Everything does. The dresses. The shoes. The belts. The rings. Even the smallclothes. This is _my_ chamber. I am the woman in the tapestry. The trout was my father’s sigil and the wolf…”

“Your husband’s,” he whispers.

Dragging a hand over his mouth, he turns away from her to face the window. A table stands beneath it, dried lavender in a vase at its center. The flowers tremble when he drops his hand with a heavy sigh and leans against the table on his knuckles as if the thought of being her husband troubles him so much he needs a moment to gather himself. Unless…

Unless he truly does believe she’s his good-sister and _that_ is the upsetting thought.

She licks her lips and takes half a step closer to him, the dress she fell in love with the instant she saw it pressed to her breast. “I mended your cloak. It needs a proper wash, though. But you seem to have found another one. A whole set of clean clothes--even boots--and they fit you perfectly as well.”

“Yeah.” He turns back around and shoots her a quick smile. “Boots and all.” 

“Which means the chamber you slept in could be yours. And that means our chambers lie next to one another. And then there’s the tapestry...”

“But why would we have separate chambers? Why wouldn’t we--” He freezes, one hand pointing at the bed and exposing without a doubt why his face suddenly looks burned by too much summer sun. Their eyes connect for a fraction of a heartbeat before his head bows and he watches his fingers tap restlessly against the table. “It’s strange, that’s all.” He swallows. “That a husband and wife wouldn’t share.”

"Is it? It can’t be easy moving from your father’s castle, where you feel at home in every chamber, to a place where you feel a stranger no matter where you go. Perhaps I was given my own chamber. A place just for me, where I wouldn’t feel as if I were encroaching on someone else’s space. It would’ve been a generous, considerate gesture of y-- Of my husband.”

“Aye, but there should at least be some signs of…” He waves his hand about, still not looking at her. “That I’ve been in here. That a _man_ has been in here. Or a woman in mine. I saw nothing to suggest it.”

She hangs back the dress, stroking her hand one last time over the soft velvet, and picks up the sewing basket she found by the bed this morning when she was set to repair his cloak. It was full of garments to be mended. Socks to be darned. A handkerchief with an embroidery of that wolf sigil, more than halfway done. The movement makes him finally look at her. Move to her. Pick up the bone-white undershirt that lies neatly folded at the top. It has a hole in the seam at the armpit and it looks just like the undershirt he wore last night. Same fabric, same lacing, same size.

“Why would I mend the garments of a man who’s not my husband?"

Frowning, he picks up the breeches that laid beneath the shirt. They’re too short for him and yet wider over the hips.

“I think they belong to the feral girl,” she says. “There’s a hole on the knee.”

“The feral--” He breathes out a laugh. “Aye, suppose she was a bit wild.”

“I think she might be your little sister and the wizard your little brother. You all look alike. And Ghost likes them. He even lay next to the wizard boy for a while. He looked so worried."

“Ghost? You settled on that, then?”

“He responds to it,” she says and, as if the wolf wants to prove her words, he lifts his head to look at them. “He doesn’t respond to Snow. Are you sure you didn’t remember, even for the briefest moment?”

“I’m sure. I was barely aware of the words coming out of my mouth.”

“What if that’s it. Perhaps our subconscious remembers things and when we stop thinking…”

“You said something last night. Our bodies remember what our minds don’t. We’re instinctively drawn more to some people than others. And we…" He folds the breeches and puts them back. "I get it. I do. Why you believe we’re... And I do feel a bond to the girl and the boy from the godswood. They do feel like family, somehow. But if you’re mending the breeches of your husband’s sister, then you could also be mending an undershirt belonging to his brother. This"--he lets the undershirt join the breeches--"it doesn’t prove anything. Nothing proves anything. We’re still just making assumptions.”

“I know,” she says, quietly. And she does know. It's why she didn't wear the wolf embroidery dress, no matter how much she wanted it. Had she left her chambers in that, it would've suggested to everyone around them that she and the wolf sword man had accepted the role of king and queen in more ways than just leadership. She sighs and returns the basket to its place. "I don't. Believe it. I don't know what I believe. All I know is that I'm frightened because our home is full of strangers and we need to be the first ones to learn the truth. You said it yourself: we can't trust any outsiders--and they're all outsiders. Any one of them could stumble upon something or remember something and use it to their advantage. If you and I want to find the truth, we need to talk to each other. We need to share any findings, any suspicions. No matter how small."

He nods, mouth tight, head bowed again, shoulders slumping with the burden of all these unanswered questions. She struck with the impulse to stroke her hands over the curve of those slumping shoulders, wind her arms around his body, and pull him into her embrace, swaying with him until that burden feels a little easier to carry. It's so strong, that impulse, so tempting, she must fold her arms behind her back lest she acts on it.

If he’s right--if he truly is right--then, _oh_ , she married the wrong brother.

He could be. Right. It’s a paltry narrative he offers, but her mind has no trouble enriching it. Her father, a southron lord, gave away his daughter’s hand in marriage to the king of this snowy land. A king who was so busy forming alliances and preparing for the greatest war in history, his poor bride spent her days not with her husband but with the man sworn to protect her: her husband's younger brother. A man so trusted, he was given a chamber next to hers so that he'd always be close. And so the days passed with this wolf sword man always by her side, always so attentive, respectful, and honorable. Always so gentle and kind and strong she soon found her thoughts full of him when she lay down at night to do her duty in the marriage bed. She found herself longing for morning for it meant she'd see him again, talk to him again, touch him again, those innocent little touches that meant nothing to others but _everything_ to them.

She can picture it so easily. It’s like a song, like a romance plucked from the pages of the half-read book waiting on her nightstand. A grand romance between a knight and the lady he’d sworn to protect. A chaste, courtly love that, no doubt, will turn torrid in the third act for isn’t that how it always goes? In the stories at least…

She’s barely begun to consider what torrid might mean here, in the real world with a real man who will follow his own mind rather than the whims of whoever holds the quill, before the wolf sword man’s stomach growls with hunger. They share a look, a breathy laugh, and leave her chamber with Ghost trailing after them to find something to eat.

* * *

In a waiting room connected to the great hall, the boy she protects sleeps nestled in furs. The girl sits by his feet, one leg folded beneath her and the other dangling from the narrow bed. They’ve moved a side table next to the bed and on it stands a tray of food. Salted fish, a heel of bread, thick slices of cheese, and a pitcher of ale. The Wolf King eats with his fingers, as does the girl, while the Wolf Queen sits primly on a chair and watches. She visited earlier today to inquire after the sleeping boy's health. After some polite chit chat--and, more importantly, after the wolf jumped onto the bed and curled up next to the boy--she carefully suggested they were family. The girl, the boy, and the Wolf King. The girl knew it was true the moment she heard it; she knew it in her very bones. This Wolf Queen, though, she excluded herself. She doesn't have the wolf look, granted, but the girl feels some sort of kinship to her as well, as if they’ve taken her in and left their scent all over her so that no one else will think to claim her just because she looks like the odd one out.

Word around the castle says she's the Wolf King's wife. The girl hasn't left the chamber much, only when either Ghost or the Wolf Queen has been able to sit in here. But she's a good listener, she's found--she even understands some of what the Essosi soldiers say (a fact she’s shared with no one)--and a good observer too. And every time she has popped out to rid herself of restless energy and fill herself with crisp winter air, the girl has heard whispered speculations about the man and woman who quickly became the leaders of this motley horde. She's heard the epithets they've been given for lack of their true names and even come to call them the same in her own thoughts.

Is it true, though? She hasn't seen the tapestry, nor has she seen them interact much. Not until now.

She tears off a chunk of bread and soaks it in her ale to soften it a bit. “So what do you think”--she pops the bread into her mouth--”about this whole marriage thing. Do you think you’re married?”

The Wolf King shifts his weight uncomfortably. "It's impossible to say."

"I overheard the man with the golden hand saying you two should kiss. See what it feels--"

The Wolf King chokes on his salted fish, coughs, swallows down a few generous gulps of ale, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Then, holding her gaze firmly, he puts down the tankard, firmly, and says, firmly, "No."

The girl grins. His firm look turns into a firm scowl. She grins wider.

(It's the most fun she's had all day.)

The Wolf Queen shakes her head at them. “He believes I’m married to your brother."

Frowning, the girl nods at the boy. “Bit young, isn’t he? Unless you’re into that.”

“An _older_ brother!”

“There’s another one? How big is our family?”

“We don’t know. It’s only a theory.”

“Well, have you found anyone? Someone who looks a bit kingly. With our sigil stamped on his chest or something.”

“Not yet. But we’re still finding survivors. And we’ve only begun sorting the fallen. We’re separating them based on sigils or lack thereof. And then there’s the thing about the blue eyes. It’s hardly making things easier--”

“Blue eyes?” the Wolf King says.

“Yes. After a while, we realized that the soldiers we believed to be part of the army of the dead all had blue eyes. Unnaturally blue. And you’d think that would make it easier, but we soon realized that some of our own had those blue eyes as well. It made me remember the skeletons. We believe that whatever resurrected them resurrected the fallen as well. To make the army of the dead even greater.”

The Wolf King stares at her, mouth slightly open, eyes asking a question the girl doesn't understand. The Wolf Queen seems to understand it, though. It's a subtle thing, the change in her expression, but it _is_ there. The slightest shift from bemusement at the Wolf King's reaction to understanding it completely. And then that shifts too into a smile small and easy enough to avoid looking forced.

“At least the blue eyes tell us none of the survivors is resurrected,” she says, looking at the Wolf King. “Whatever we did to end that magic, it killed them all. We even checked the Wizard’s eyes. They’re brown. Just like yours.”

Oh, she’s good. She is. Her tone is light, not warm, not reassuring, just light. As if she was finding a silver lining, not comforting the Wolf King, and yet he _looks_ comforted. He breathes out, the tension leaving his body along with the air, and resumes eating without a word.

If they worried the boy was undead, they could’ve just said so. No, this is something else. They have a secret. The girl lets them, for now. Eats more fish. Swallows it down with rich, bitter ale and listens to the Wolf Queen filling them in on what else they’ve missed so far today.

Watches them. Watches the looks they exchange, the way his eyes linger on her a little too often, the way her eyes drink him in when he eats with his hands as if this proper lady likes a man who's a bit rough around the edges. Watches the way they sit, how his legs are spread far apart enough his knee brushes her skirts, and how her body is angled slightly toward him even though she faces the bed and not him. 

Huh.

“So," the girl says, all innocent, "if you haven't found this mysterious brother, what are you basing the theory on?"

"Nothing." The Wolf King drinks more ale. "It's just a hunch--and right now, hunches are all we have."

“So what if my hunch says you are. Married. You and her."

He sighs. Deeply. Finishes his ale and puts the tankard down before leaning forward with his elbows resting on his thighs and his hands clasped lightly. “I get that this is a fun game, figuring everyone out, but what’s the point of it? In a few days Gentle will have found a family tree or some records of the rulers of this kingdom that tell us the truth. Only a fool would act on hunches before then. No matter how strong those hunches feel. All we can do for now is keep taking care of everything and make sure everyone gets along.”

"I'm not suggesting you act on it. I'm suggesting you two do something about _this_." She gestures at the tension-filled space between them. “Because that's what I based my hunch on and so will everyone else. People are already talking and if they keep talking and it turns out you're actually married to other people...? What then? If you two stop, though, they’ll stop too. They'll find something else to talk about.”

She pauses, then, to let her words land--and they do land. She never even has to specify exactly what _this_ is. They know. They're so aware of it the tension that sparked and glowed between them only a moment ago now weighs down on them like a heavy blanket of wet snow. Still, while the Wolf King sits frozen beneath that weight, it takes the Wolf Queen barely a moment to shake herself free.

"You seem very observant," she says. "That could prove useful."

"You're putting me to work?"

"I'm just asking you to keep your eyes and ears open, tell me or your brother anything you find out, and no one else."

"Yeah. It's us against them, isn't it."

"Aye," the Wolf King says to his feet, voice gruff. "Until we know more. We shouldn't trust anyone who's not in this chamber."

The Wolf Queen gets to her feet. "It's getting late. If we want to keep everything running smoothly, we should summon everyone to a meeting before the day ends. You're welcome to join us, if you'd like."

The girl shakes her head and tells them her place is here, with her sleeping brother. He's come to twice, if you can call it that when all he's done is lifting his head a little to accept broth from a cup before drifting off again. He's not said a single word nor made any indication that he's heard theirs. And yet she knows with all that she is that she must protect him. That _nothing_ is more important. Not even making sure that her big brother and the woman he so obviously adores don’t do something foolish.

* * *

The wolf sword man opens the door for her and, when they’re out in the small hallway leading to the courtyard, offers his arm as if it’s already become a habit. She rejects it with a smile and a, “Best not,” even though she longs to take it and feel, with every step, that it's where she belongs. On _his_ arm, no one else’s. And that no other woman belongs with him. Only her.

But from the little the lady knows of herself by now, she’s a romantic. She’s prone to get carried away on waves of wishful thinking to a land where all the fantasies that surely filled her girlhood are possible when the sad truth is the wolf sword man might not be hers at all.

The feral girl is right.

Rumors and gossip need feeding to stay alive. So as long as the lady and the wolf sword man treat one another with nothing but mutual respect and politeness, something more interesting will come along to occupy everyone’s thoughts. The gossip and rumors will starve and die. And soon no one will remember that day--that one single day--when everyone thought the lady and the wolf sword man were married.


	6. A Hand to Hold

The tables still stand in a square, but someone has taken the liberty to put the table and chairs where the lady and the wolf sword man sat yesterday on a dais. The Hand, she wagers. He wears his pin proudly on his chest and is there early, stealing himself the chair to the right of the wolf sword man and meeting the haughty man’s eyes calmly when he enters the chamber. Lips disdainfully curled, the haughty man side-eyes him and chooses the chair to the lady’s left. While ser Lion is with them, ser Lady Knight and the Squire still sleep. The lady supposes she should have them woken up, but considering everything they’ve gone through, she doesn’t have the heart to do it. She almost wants to order all the people in here to go straight back to bed as well; they all look endlessly tired. 

That is, everyone but the Dragon Queen who is last to arrive, Long Spear and the Translator behind her.

To replicate yesterday’s braided bun, the lady would've needed the help of a handmaiden and right now everyone’s hands are needed elsewhere. And so the lady washes and dresses herself and wears her hair in a simple braid. The Dragon Queen, however, looks well-rested and polished, yesterday’s torn coat replaced by a similar-looking one in gray and red, and yesterday’s messy braids now neat and intricate. It might seem frivolous to some. Selfish. There’s been talk about that already. Apparently, she had some of her men prepare her a bath last night. The Hand saw them lugging a tub to the chamber she’d been assigned. Other soldiers searched through the chambers until they found her travel chest, thankfully intact in an otherwise messy room.

The lady knows better, though. As much as she might feel different when she’s with the Wolf family, she also feels that they’re _her_ family. She feels, when she walks these hallways, that this is her home. She’s not the outsider--the Dragon Queen is.

She doesn’t belong here and she knows it. They all know it.

There’s been talk about her character as well, about the dragon they thankfully haven’t seen again, about what will happen if it returns. Anyone among them could deem the Dragon Queen too dangerous, no matter her true nature, and attempt an assassination. That thought must've occurred to the Dragon Queen too. How can the lady then fault her for clinging to every ounce of power she can get--especially not when her own wolf sword man lies dead outside? How can she fault her for wanting to look her best? It’s one of the few ways a woman can armor herself.

So she smiles at her. A welcoming smile from a hostess to her guest. A smile between two women in a room of men. A _warm_ smile. And the Dragon Queen smiles back, equally warm.

They listen to Gentle first. Despite his lack of novice robes, he suspects he’s a maester in training. A knight of the mind, as he calls it almost breathlessly, eyes sparkling. During his time with the dying in the infirmary, he explains, some instinct took over and soon he found himself helping in healing too. Turns out he knew things most people don’t.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace, but the maester says he needs me.” Gentle looks a little too proud at that to seem convincingly regretful. “I haven’t had time to look through the library yet, but if Your Grace finds it more important that I search through any records I can find…”

The wolf sword man shakes his head. “Healing the injured is more important for now.”

“Unless Your Grace mind,” the corpulent man in fine robes says with a gentle bow of his head, “I would be happy to search through the library and maester’s chamber. I fear I’m not cut out for the infirmary or… carrying bodies.”

The wolf sword man regards him for a moment long enough that more than one person in the chamber squirm. The man himself, however, remains calm beneath the scrutiny.

Finally, the wolf sword man nods. “Bring anything you find to me first.”

“And what about me?” the Dragon Queen says. “I seem to recall our agreeing that _transparency_ was our best course of action.”

Although her mouth spoke a question in an amiable enough tone, her gaze is resolute. The lady feels the wolf sword man stiffen by her side.

“Aye, it is. Bring it to us both, my lord,” he says to the corpulent man. Then he turns his head to the Dragon Queen. “As long as the Dragon Queen remembers she is my guest, has eaten of my food, and what that means.”

The Dragon Queen glances at her advisers and either can’t or doesn’t bother to hide her confusion. Long Spear remains expressionless; the Translator shakes her head discreetly.

“Guest right, Your Grace,” the lady says, kindly. “It’s an ancient law protecting both guests and hosts. We’ve invited you into our home; you’ve eaten of our food. That means we’ve entered a contract. We cannot harm you; you cannot harm us. Breaking that contract would be a great sin and the gods, old and new, would curse us for it.”

“Guest right.” The Dragon Queen smiles at her before turning her eyes back to the wolf sword man. “Yes. We have a truce. I’m not aiming to get cursed by any gods--nor am I here to hurt anyone. All I want is to learn where home is and return to it."

“I understand, Your Grace,” he says. “We will of course do anything we can to help you return to your people.”

He sounds as if he means it--and the lady thinks he does--but there’s still tension lingering in the chamber, a stoniness in his features, a superior tilt of her chin, reminding them all that truce doesn’t mean friendship.

The lady will have to keep an eye on those two.

The rest of the meeting runs smoothly enough. She and the wolf sword man stay mindful of how they interact too, the feral girl’s words no doubt ringing in the back of his head the way they do in hers. Not once during the meeting does she find his eyes on her, warm and tender. Not one does he lean into her or touch her or treat her as if she means something to him. Their only hiccup is when he moves the conversation to what should be done with the bodies of the fallen and he turns to her, addresses her as, “My--” and stops so abruptly _lady_ can’t have been the word he was about to say.

But her fluttering little heart has barely a chance to fill in the blanks before he recovers and finds a way to tell them he knows about the unnatural blue eyes without calling her his anything. 

It shouldn’t sting, how good he is at this, but it does. Just as it stings a little every time he protests so at the theory of their being husband and wife as if maybe he does believe it but doesn't want it. But she can't let that show, can't ponder this in front of company. Instead, as the wolf sword man talks about the bodies--how they might not rot in this cold but still could attract wild animals, how burning them would be preferable to burying them--her mind conjures up the memory of the man with the spear in his side. His pale unseeing eyes. The blood now frozen on his cold skin.

He fell protecting the wizard. He was important enough, _trusted_ enough, to protect the king’s little brother while he sat by the heart-tree to perform the magic which saved them all--and now they’re to _burn_ him? 

“We wouldn’t know whom we are burning,” she says, the words tumbling out of her even though the wolf sword man hasn’t finished speaking for she cannot stand the thought of it. That man in flames, a hero gone before they could properly honor him and the sacrifice he made. “I think we should wait.”

“If we wait, it could--”

“I heard you,” she says and the wolf sword man’s jaw clenches. His nostrils even flare. “I still think we should wait. A few days at least. What if our memories return tomorrow and we realize we never got to say goodbye to the people we loved and lost? We might not even know _whom_ we’ve lost. There could be consequences to that. Burning them would be unwise.”

"And what if the enemy returns and resurrects them again?" The wolf sword man pulls his head back to look at her. "We don't know what did. We don't even know whether we killed it--and here we are, offering them a fresh army."

"I could be of help," the Dragon Queen says in a sweet voice. "Many of my men are still fit to fight. I will command them to guard the bodies, day and night."

"Your Grace," Gentle says, "I don't know whether anyone's informed you about the obsidian daggers? We've found loads of them. At first we believed they could've been weapons of the enemy, but then the mother, the one who was here yesterday, remembered Her Grace carried one. We believe they're magical blades that can slay the dead. If we arm the Dragon Queen's men with those daggers..."

The wolf sword man shakes his head. "It's dangerous."

Gentle hums. "There _is_ a risk, I'll grant you that, but the magic does seem to be broken, doesn't it. None of the dead has as much as twitched. I think they're all properly dead. We could give it a few days, at least."

The wolf sword man draws a tired breath but relents and orders a fence to be built around the area to help keeping animals out (and potential walking dead inside) before getting to his feet and dismissing everyone. Everyone but the lady. He doesn’t even have to say a word. A look is all it takes for her to stay in the chamber while the others leave, some casting them intrigued looks before vanishing through the door.

The wolf sword man keeps his eyes on the floor while they wait for the echoes of retreating footfalls to grow weaker and weaker and vanish. Only then does he step closer to her and lift his chin as if that would help him grow enough inches to be her height.

“You interrupted me.” He looks at her; she says nothing. “Twice.”

“Are you reprimanding me?”

“When you interrupt me in front of the others, you undermine me.” He points with his whole hand at the door. “They _just_ named me king!” 

“And you think, what,” she asks, gently, “that they’ll unname you king because I interrupted you in a meeting?”

He stares at her, mouth open and chest full with a held breath that then rushes out of him in a sharp exhale as he folds in on himself. Shoulders hunched, he takes a step back and looks so young, suddenly, she can’t help but think of a hedgehog, so soft and small, rolled up into a prickly ball because that’s the only defense it has. The sight of him tugs at her heartstrings, at her hand that reaches out without her permission and curls around his. She’s not even aware of what she’s doing until his eyes snap up to hers, wide beneath raised brows.

He’ll pull away, she knows. Snatch his hand from hers. Frown at her. Remind her she’s not _his_ wife. Point out she’s being untoward and she’s about to pull away herself before he can reject her touch when she realizes that his wide eyes aren’t alarmed or disgusted but wounded. That his fingers have curled around hers almost carefully as if he's a little too insecure to reciprocate in full. That he's _still_. And so she stays. With a thrill surging in her body, she stays.

“Are you all right?” she murmurs. “You seem… irritable. You did yesterday as well. I assumed it was fatigue but… Is this what you’re usually like? All huffy and short-tempered.”

His lashes flutter. He swallows. Bows his head with a loud sigh. And when he draws himself up again with a deep breath, she thinks maybe he is like that, her husband. He wouldn’t be the first man who’d like his wife to be a pretty little thing by his side. And there _is_ something so familiar about this. As if they’ve had this fight before. But he doesn’t pull back his hand now either. He doesn't scowl or frown or glare. He smiles. A tired smile. A humble smile. A smile that reaches his eyes and her heart and makes her smile too, even if it’s faint.

“Yeah.” He rubs the line of his jaw with his other hand. “I overreacted, didn’t I.”

“A little.” She squeezes his hand gently. “You can talk to me, you know. Either I’m your wife or I’m your brother’s wife--whichever it is, I’m family. I’m loyal to you. I’m here for you. And we’re in this _together_.” Another squeeze. “I promise.”

His smile fades, but the warmth remains in his eyes. He even inches closer to her, his hand warm around hers. Soft, even, from the wool fat she massaged into his skin last night when she took care of him. When he let her.

“I don’t know why,” he whispers. “But I just can’t shake the feeling that it’s not right. This. Me. Being king. It shouldn’t be me. It should be…” He shrugs helplessly. “I don’t remember having a brother, but I keep feeling that it’s wrong. That _I’m_ wrong. That I shouldn’t be here.” He averts his eyes and says, quietly. “That I don’t deserve it.”

She soothes her thumb along his palm. “But even if you did have a brother, he’s gone now. As far as we know, he has no heirs. I…” She drops his hand, then, can’t touch him when she talks about her naked body. “When I undressed last night, I found no signs of having borne a child. I don’t think I’m a mother. I don't _feel_ like a mother."

“A mother knows,” he says with a quick smile, eyes still downcast. He flexes his hand and shoves it in the pocket of his breeches. 

“That would make you the heir. It would mean you’re doing your duty. Your brother would be proud.”

"That doesn’t mean I deserve it. They picked me because I had a wolf-shaped pommel in a castle full of wolf sigils when, for all they knew, I could’ve picked it off any body lying out there. The didn't choose _me_." He grips the pommel of his sword. "They chose this.”

"They chose you because you did the work. Because when everyone was scared and confused and didn’t know what to do, you stepped forward and _led_.”

“Anyone would’ve.”

“That’s not true and you know it. You're a little grumpy, that's true, but from what I’ve seen, you’re a good king. You _are_.”

Slowly, he lifts his gaze to hers, takes a step closer, and stares so deeply into her eyes she thinks he can see her very soul and she forgets how to breathe.

“Do you ever feel like…”

“What?” she whispers.

Her eyes drop to his lips. If only he tilted his face up the smallest bit...

A shaky breath leaves him. He clears his throat and takes a step back, shaking his head. “I don’t know.”

An impulse carries her a step forward. “No, tell me.”

“I was nothing. Really.” He forces up the corners of his mouth. “I’m not sure I’m fully awake yet. Nothing feels quite real.”

“This is a very strange situation. It leaves us all on the edge. Even me. I shouldn’t have interrupted you. You’re not entirely wrong. I could’ve waited for my turn to speak.”

“Yeah, but… It’s not the end of the world if you do. I don’t know why I was so…” He sighs. “You’re right. I am irritable and grumpy.”

“You’re tired. Only the gods know how little you’ve slept the past… however long we’ve prepared for this war. And then there’s the memory loss. It’s winter. The castle is a mess and we don’t have enough food and someone has to take care of all these people. You’re under a lot of stress.”

“We all are.”

He smiles at her, blinking softly. He’s handsome when he smiles, the faintest dimple appearing on his left cheek. Has she ever stroked it with her finger tip? Has she ever kissed it? Has she ever--

“We should probably head out there,” he says, voice rough.

She laughs breathily, smoothing a hand down her bodice. “Yes. We should.”

This time, he remembers not to offer his arm as they walk down the hallway. He even pats his leg so that Ghost walks between them like a shield.

He must find their behavior strange, this pale, quiet wolf. If he remembers them. She’s still not certain whether or not he acts on instincts and scent memories. Something they all seem to be acting on, only for humans, worries and fears and insecurities interfere to the point where they can’t trust their instincts the way a wolf can.

He did respond to his name, though… He must remember them, must know what they were before all this. She wishes she could ask him.

_Why don’t we share a chamber?_

Perhaps they’re so newly married they haven’t consummated it yet--or perhaps they’re only betrothed. Did she and her father travel up here a month before the battle so that she and the king could determine whether or not a union was feasible? A union arranged to secure him some armies and her father an important ally and royal grandchildren. Did she and the wolf sword man fall in love during that time? It would explain the separate chambers. It would explain why she’s _aching_ for him. A whole month of the wolf sword man being perfectly chivalrous as he courted her, kissing her hand at most, while she grew more and more desperate for him to kiss her mouth and her neck and her-- Oh, it’s a fantasy as romantic and tempting as her fantasies about courtly love.

But they’ve found no soldiers with a trout sigil. Not one. And the tapestry depicts a wedding by a trout-filled river...

She might not be the woman in the tapestry at all.

There’s an uncomfortable sensation in her stomach. A worry that’s drowning in the sea of other worries that undulates within her. That can never grow still enough for her to sort them all through so long as every hour means more questions that remain unanswered. And now they’re out in a courtyard lit by braziers and torches and full of people who have nothing for entertainment but gossip. She must control her thoughts. Put on an amiable mask. Comport herself just in time for the Dragon Queen and her small retinue to approach.

“May I steal your wife for a moment,” she asks the wolf sword man. “I’d like to take a walk. I would love the company.”

“At this hour?”

“An evening walk in this crisp air will help us all sleep well tonight.”

Lips pressed together, the wolf sword man regards her and her retinue for a beat before he turns to the lady.

She had planned on showing him around and informing him of everything herself before sitting down with him, the Hand, and the older man in a green doublet who’s made sure to make himself so useful today she’s come to regard him as a sort of steward. They are to arrange a schedule so that people can work, sleep, eat (and get some leisure time too) in shifts. But diplomacy is an equally important part of ruling; the Hand can show the wolf sword man around. So she gives him a small nod to show her approval.

“Of course, Your Grace,” the wolf sword man says. A polite smile appears and disappears on his face in a flash. He then cups the lady’s elbow, leaning in the smallest bit closer. “There might be wolves and bears out there. If you leave the grounds, take ser Lady Knight and our wolf with you.”

His hand glides to her back, then, to give her a touch she can’t describe as the pat of someone sending a friend on their way nor as the loving caress of a husband loathe to see his wife go. But it’s somewhere in between. Just affectionate enough to make her shiver.

She pulls her cloak more tightly around her body and pretends it’s the cold. Smiles again at the Dragon Queen instead of following the wolf sword man with her eyes as he leaves, hooks her arms with the Dragon Queen's arm when offered, and prepares herself to engage in small talk instead thinking about the wonderful thing that just happened. This time, when someone called them husband and wife, the wolf sword man did not protest.


	7. A Growing Suspicion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments so far! I know the pacing is a little on the slow burn side, but they're getting there lol

She doesn’t miss the glance the Dragon Queen exchanges with the Translator. They have discussed this, then. This one-on-one that isn’t, really, for the Dragon Queen keeps a retinue of four (the Translator, Long Spear, and two guards) and the lady keeps a retinue of one enormous wolf whose presence puts everyone around him on alert. The Translator might’ve even suggested it. She doesn’t speak much and her beauty is of the soft, graceful kind that has many underestimating her intelligence, but from what the lady can tell, the Translator observes and listens actively, always. 

No matter how lovely it would be to have a lady friend or two to confide in, the lady won’t be fooled by the Translator’s gentleness nor by the friendly smile the Dragon Queen offers when she leans in and says, “He’s very protective, your husband.”

“That’s only a theory, Your Grace.”

“One you don’t believe, I take it.”

“I think it’s best to believe nothing. At least for now.

“Perhaps you should tell him that.”

“He believes it even less than I do.”

Peering at her, the Dragon Queen emits a surprised noise from the back of her throat. “I’ve heard him protest, of course, but I assumed it was for show. I assumed that he sounded quite different in private.”

“Not at all.” The lady lifts her skirts with her free hand as they ascend the stairs leading to the walkways overlooking the courtyard. “The only time we spend in private is the walk to and from our chambers--and then we barely say two words to one another. He’s a quiet man.”

“And quite an _unusual_ man. Very honorable. Any other man would’ve taken advantage of the situation and lured you into his bed. You’re lucky…”

She trails off, eyes locked on something down in the courtyard. It’s the wolf sword man, listening intently to one of the blacksmiths. He looks serious, focused, his eyes almost black in the dim light. He’s so handsome the lady has to remind herself not to stare. The Dragon Queen, however, cares little about discretion.

“Or are you unlucky?" she says, slowing her step to a halt. “He _is_ rather short. But that face, those lips, those hands… And he’s a fighter. A good one, I’d wager. And you know what they say about good fighters...” She looks at the lady to fill in the rest of the sentence; the lady feigns ignorance. The Dragon Queen turns her gaze back to the wolf sword man, lips pursed into a smirk. “The Hand thinks our bodies remember--and if I were the one with a presumed husband, I’d want his body to remember me. I'd want him to have to _fight_ his passion for me. I’d want--”

The Dragon Queen quiets, head turning toward the sound of heated voices winding through the walkway. Harsh, rapid steps. The clanking of armor. She and the lady exchange a look and walk toward the commotion. They can’t see the people bickering, but noise travels well here and soon it’s clear it’s ser Lady Knight berating ser Lion for not waking her.

“I thought you needed your beauty sleep,” he says in the easy tone of someone who knows exactly how to rile up his opponent.

“Beauty sleep!” The clanking footsteps stop. “What use do I have of beauty? I’m a soldier. A knight. The Queen needed me. It’s my duty to protect her and you let me _sleep_!”

“She’s fine. She has that idiot wolf following her around and the big wolf too.”

“It’s not the King’s duty to guard his wife. That duty belongs to me. And you’re making me look terrible. What kind of brother are you?”

They round a corner and find ser Lady Knight glaring down at ser Lion, who seems completely at home in her looming shadow. A frown wrinkles his brow, true, but he looks bemused rather than angry. Thoughtful, almost. He even tilts his face up and walks farther into her space.

“About that,” he says, squinting. “Are you sure we’re not married?”

“You’re the one who found that prospect entirely impossible. Apparently, I’m a beast of a woman.”

“A _handsome_ beast! Beautiful really.” He fires off a brilliant smile. “Now that you’ve gotten your sleep.”

Ser Lady Knight looks as if she’s one insult away from shooting steam out of her nose and ears. Her chest heaves as she towers over him while he looks at her with a sense of wonder in his eyes, as if he’s seeing her for the first time, the woman behind the armor. And, little by little, her anger drains away and leaves her standing there, gazing at him in a way that’s decidedly not familial. Gazing at him in the way he gazes at her, their chests still heaving but for a different reason entirely.

The Dragon Queen leans in closer to the lady, laughter in her voice as she whispers, “That. I’d want _that_. That passion. They fight as if they’re warming up for a different kind of... thrust. Perhaps _they’re_ the ones who are husband and wife while you and your king,” she says, patting the lady’s arm comfortingly, the undulating sea of worries within the lady now roiling, “are brother and sister.”

And there it is, slammed into her face. The suspicion that’s grown with each discovery she’s made. A suspicion she let drown in that sea for examining it--even acknowledging it--was _unthinkable_.

It takes more strength than she cares to admit to hide the shame that crashes over her. To muster up a smile and murmur something about saving ser Lady Knight from an uncomfortable situation. To then stroll next to the Dragon Queen, the lady’s retinue now one lady knight stronger, and keep up the small talk until they’re past the castle gates and at the area where men already have started building a fence around the fallen. 

Farther out on the field, other men are still working to move more bodies closer to the castle and more injured to the infirmary. They still find them. Hear them crying for help beneath a pile of dead. Sometimes she thinks about those too weak to cry. Those who suffocate, bleed, and freeze to death while waiting for someone to notice them. Sometimes she thinks about the children--so many children--and how desperate this kingdom must’ve been to arm boys whose chins were covered with the first downy attempts at a beard and girls just barely old enough to have flowered.

Not all of them are gone, though. Plenty of younglings heal in the maester’s care, but some do lie out here, in rows and rows and rows among their fallen fathers and mothers and brothers and sisters. The Dragon Queen walks among them like a lady browsing wares at a market, eyes moving over them methodically while the light of the torches carried by her guards shifts from snow to body to snow to body to snow to the man from the godswood with a kraken sigil on his chest.

Someone has removed the spear. His eyes still stare unseeing at the star-strewn sky. The torchlight conjures a red-gold tint to his locks. It’s an illusion, she knows, but the lady can’t help but think of her own hair. He can’t be a brother, though. She found no kraken sigil among her belongings. A cousin, perhaps, or a childhood friend.

Or a husband.

“Did you know him?” the Dragon Queen asks.

“I don’t know, but I assume we both did.”

“You look as if you knew him. As if he could be someone you loved and lost. You look…” She tilts her head to the side, considering the lady. “Sad. 

“I am. There are so many people here with no one to remember them. That is very sad to me.”

“Yes.” The Dragon Queen dons a somber mask and sweeps her eyes over the fallen. “All these men lost forever. Women and children too. At least we saved the rest. Perhaps we even saved the world.” She smiles wistfully. “At least I’d like to think so.”

“A comforting thought, Your Grace."

The Queen hums, nodding, and moves to the body lying next to the godswood man. From his fair hair and weathered face, from the way the Queen’s hand trembles when she moves it toward him, the lady knows it’s the man they found the Dragon Queen collapsed atop. Her own wolf sword man. The lady clasps her hands behind her back and averts her eyes out of respect.

“People say he was my husband,” the Dragon Queen murmurs. “I’m inclined to believe it. Though I do not remember him, there’s an ache in my heart when I look at him. As if I loved him. Other people say he was my father. How am I to know which is true? Am I mourning him as a widow or an orphan?” She sighs deeply. “They both feel…”

 _Right_. Awful, yes, but familiar as well. Widow and orphan. Two strangely comfortable and uncomfortable labels. The lady moves her feet a little. In this weather, her toes are already growing cold from standing still.

“If Your Grace would like a moment alone," she says, "I would not take offense.”

“Yes, of course.” The Dragon Queen touches her arm again, keeps her hand there, as if they’re already good friends. “I am keeping you from your duties. What a thoughtless guest I am.”

“Not at all. The stroll was very refreshing.”

“Don’t worry about your…” She glances at the godswood man. “Friend. I will leave my men here, day and night. They will guard the fallen.”

“You’re very kind, Your Grace.”

“As were you. Today at the meeting.” The Dragon Queen looks up at her, the light of the torches glowing in her wide eyes. “We are two women--two _leaders_ \--in a world of men who'll push us down, if we let them. But if we work together, if we support one another, they won’t succeed.”

After a final exchange of pleasantries, the lady leaves the Dragon Queen to stroll among the dead on her own. Her words, however, nip at the lady’s heels for the rest of the evening.

She’s not a subtle woman, that Dragon Queen. But then, when one has dragons, why would one need to be?

She wants to figure out the nature of the lady’s relationship with the wolf sword man because she… wants him for her own? Or she wants his kingdom and sees his beauty as a fortunate benefit. And she wants the lady’s friendship because, if the lady turns out to be the king’s sister, either by marriage or blood, that might make a union easier to accomplish.

Or--if the fair-haired sigil-less man is the Dragon Queen’s father--it could’ve occurred to her as well that _she_ might be the wolf sword man’s wife. That it was the price he paid for her dragons and her armies. That their marriage alliance is so fresh, still, they’ve yet to form that bond that would make their bodies remember what their minds do not.

And if that’s true. Oh, if that’s true, then she would want to know whether she needs to look for long red hairs on her husband’s pillow.

The long red hairs of a woman who might be his sister.

* * *

  
  


In the hours that have passed between the meeting and bedtime, he’s not crossed paths with the lady often. When he has, though, he’s been surprisingly good at tampering down the impulses to touch her when he wants her attention, to follow her with his eyes when she leaves the room, and to let his gaze linger on her when someone else is talking. She, in turn, has been respectful, polished, and well-mannered but never familiar. Never that soft and warm woman he’s come to know in private.

At first the contrast thrilled him for it meant he got her--the _real_ her--while the rest of them got the competent and cordial Wolf Queen.

Now, though, as they’re walking down dimly lit hallways where the din from the other wings of the castle just barely reaches them, where no one can see them, no one can hear them--not even Ghost, who’s gone hunting--she stays quiet. Reserved, even, her brow knitted, shoulders high, and mouth tense.

He fucked up, then. Women like confident men and here he was opening up and showing himself insecure and vulnerable like a bleeding idiot when she wants a _man._ A proper man. The man in the tapestry. A king. His perfect older brother who’d never stand in front of a pretty lady and practically admit it wasn’t just the throne he felt unworthy of but her too. Small wonder she’s withdrawn--

Is that her, though? She, who took his hand and comforted him and looked at him in a way that made everything feel so much better. She, who _wanted_ him to open up.

He glances at her through the corner of his eye. They’re at her door, now, face to face. His eyes on her; her eyes on the floor. By now she’s had time to say goodnight and slip inside twice over, but she lingers in the hallway. 

Perhaps he’s being unfair, letting his insecurities paint her in an unflattering light.

Perhaps she’s just as tired as he is. He hasn’t even been up enough hours to call it a day, and he’s already stifling yawns and blinking sleepily.

Perhaps he should just ask.

“You’re very quiet tonight,” he says before he can talk himself out of it.

“Yes…” She pauses. “I’ve been trying to think of a way to invite you into my chamber so I can look at your wounds without it sounding as if...”

A shy smile twitches at the corner of her mouth, the apples of her cheeks deepening slightly in color.

He swallows and moves a little closer, the toes of their boots pointing at one another. “What?”

She shrugs and does something as close to an eye roll as a graceful, well-mannered lady will allow herself. “As if I’m trying to get you out of your shirt and into my…” Her lashes flutters as she looks down again. “You needn’t worry about that. I don’t think I’m the kind of woman who knows how to seduce a man.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t have to try very hard,” his stupid mouth says.

She gapes at him and he knows he’s gaping back, that they’re standing there staring at one another all alone among torchlight and shadow in a hallway so quiet he can hear the skittering of a little mouse somewhere behind him.

“I mean”--he gestures vaguely--”if you were trying to seduce a man-- _any_ man. We’re not complicated. _Men_ aren’t complicated.”

He cringes, face scrunched up, eyes screwed shut. _Seven hells, just shut up already!_ But then he hears her smile, a soft exhale through her nose, and dares to meet her eyes despite feeling like a bleeding idiot. She’s blushing, still. The smile has lingered as well and when she tells him with a warm voice that she has no intention of seducing him, he somehow feels almost giddy.

Oh, he _is_ a green boy, isn’t he?

“The maester already did,” he says. “Look at my wounds. I made sure to cover--” He points at his chest. “He said you’ve done a good job.”

“Ah. Well,” she says, swaying a little from side to side. “I did have an ulterior motive; I admit it.” She shifts so that her back is against the door, one hand on the handle. “I’d like to talk about my day with someone. About the work. Air my thoughts, my worries. And you’re the only one I can talk to. The only one I can trust. I’m not trying to…" She sighs. "I’ve heard what you’ve said about acting on assumptions and I agree. I do only want to talk.”

“It’s a bad idea, my lady.”

“Yes. I suppose it is.” A quick, unconvincing smile. “Good night, then,” she says and turns around and opens the door and walks inside and his feet ignores his mind entirely and follows his heart across the threshold and into the chamber. 

She stops. He bumps into her. For half a heartbeat they stand like that, his nose so close he can breathe in the rosewater scent of her hair. Then she moves as if nothing happened, unhooking her cloak and hanging it into her wardrobe, unlacing her boots.

After closing the door, he shrugs out of his own cloak, removes his sword belt, and his boots. Stokes life back in the fire while she removes the broad leather belt cinching her small waist. Stretches his aching body while she removes the leather tie securing her braid and lays it on the table. Slouches in the chair while she grabs a brush and sits down too.

When she puts down the brush on the table between them with a thud, his eyes are drawn to her movement and she freezes. Looks at him almost in alarm, as if she were acting by rote. As if she forgot that a woman her age shouldn’t brush her hair in front of a man who’s practically a stranger. That she shouldn't have removed her boots or her belt either. That she should be ashamed. And he can't stand it. Can't stand her looking as if she's done something wrong when everything about this feels so incredibly right.

“Does your scalp get sore,” he says, removing his own leather tie and shaking out his hair. “Mine does when I wear it up.”

She relaxes with a quiet exhale. “Yes. It does.”

For a moment, she watches him run his fingers along his scalp to get rid off the discomfort. Then she detangles the braid before grabbing the brush and chatting to him about their day while tending to her own hair. She tells him they should hold a feast the moment the patients are few enough they can be moved to a smaller chamber and free up the great hall, for people are working hard and need something to look forward to. They need a night of fun. He hums and nods in all the right places, watching the firelight play in the copper of her hair.

Gods, she’s gorgeous. Gorgeous and _so_ familiar.

It’s not that he remembers, really. It doesn’t tug at hidden memories and slot them back into their rightful places. It’s more like slipping into boots perfectly shaped after your feet. It just _fits_.

Once she’s done, she sweeps her hair over her shoulder, puts the brush back in its drawer, picks up the sewing basket, and sits back down, picking up the socks and a darning needle and darning egg. And that’s familiar too. So achingly familiar he could swear they’ve done this before, sat like this after a long day and talked while she brushed her hair and mended clothes and knitted scarves. That they’ve done it so many times before that, even now when they’re practically strangers, it still feels like the most natural thing in the world.

“Do you ever feel like…” he starts, but it’s not wise to voice it, is it? He’s said over and over that it doesn’t matter, that they won’t act on it anyway, so why insist on speculating? And he’s meant it. But she doesn’t prompt him this time, she just keeps darning those socks, socks that look exactly like the ones he has on his feet right now, and the rest of the sentence slips out of him easily after all. “That we’ve done this before. You and me. Sat next to each other in meetings. Walked through the castle together. Sat like this and even…” He swallows. “Even argued.”

She stops darning but doesn’t take her eyes off the sock. “Yes, it all does feel familiar.” Then she starts working again, weaving the needle over the threadbare patch of the heel, and says, “The Dragon Queen and I overheard ser Lion and ser Lady Knight arguing today.”

It’s a jarring enough change in subject, jarring enough change in her tone, he sits up properly in the chair. Pulls his feet back from the warmth of the hearth and places them flat on the flagstones.

“The topic was nothing, really,” she continues, “but they were so angry. _Passionate_ , the Dragon Queen called it. As if…” She pulls out the darning egg, folds the sock neatly, puts it aside, and picks up the other sock, sliding the darning egg into the opening. “As if they’re warming up for a different kind of thrust.”

He lifts his brows. “Aren’t they supposed to be brother and sister?”

“Considering the way they looked at each other, I certainly hope they’re not. The Dragon Queen had a point. They looked as if they wanted to tear each other’s clothes off right there on the walkway.”

He hums, scratching his jaw. “Suppose we don’t really know.”

“No.” She says the word slowly, her lips forming a beautiful pink _o_. She turns the sock to work perpendicular to the first stitches to strengthen them. “What if we are.”

“What if we’re what?”

She licks her lips. “Brother and sister.”

A huff of a laugh falls out of him. “No.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do.”

“It would explain everything. Why we’re comfortable with each other but don’t share a chamber. Why I have things shaped like the sigil of both my father, a wolf, and my mother, a trout. Why we look like the man and woman in the tapestry without _being_ them.”

“Aye, but it wouldn’t explain--” He closes his mouth, can’t gesture at the tension between them like his sister--his actual sister--did earlier. Can only swallow down that _this_ , keep his hand still, take a breath, and find something else. “It wouldn’t explain why you’re still here. Unless you’re older than me.”

She frowns. “I don't think I am. Why?”

“Well, if you’re the oldest, if you’re the heir, it would explain why you still live in your father’s castle. It would be _your_ castle. You’d be our queen."

"I'm not. You're older. A few years, at least."

"Well, then this isn't your father's castle. A woman of your age and birth and beauty? You’d be married. You’d be living in your husband’s castle. You’d have a child or two--”

“A child? I’m not a mother. I’m sure of it.”

“Maybe we decided to wait. Until after this war. Or maybe…” He drags a hand over his heart, over the evidence of his once-death and what it might mean. “Maybe we’ve struggled to conceive.”

She lowers the sock slowly. “We?”

His mouth drops open, his mind keeping a hard enough grip on all his words nothing tumbles out but a clever, “Uuuh.”

“You believe we’re married.”

He lifts his shoulders, shaking his head, cheeks puffed up with air he releases slowly through almost closed lips. “I don’t know what I believe. But I know that…” He leans forward, elbows on his thighs. “The girl. Your Feral Girl. She’s my sister. I can feel it. We have a bond and it’s nothing like-- It’s different, with you and me. It’s not like that.”

“You sound so sure."

“I am. I don’t know what we are, but I know it’s not siblings. You’re not my sister. You’re really not. I can’t explain how I know it. I just do.”

It’s true too. It’s not a wish. It’s knowledge etched deep in his bones. And he lets her stitch her eyes to his and see that he means it. Truly means it.

After looking her fill, she nods almost imperceptibly and returns to darning that sock, returns to the silence that ruled between them today after the meeting. It’s different this time, though. Her shoulders are dropped and her forehead smooth and her lips form the sweetest smile in the world. A smile that stays for the hour that passes before he, reluctantly, says he needs to sleep. It stays as they walk together to her door, too, and as they say goodnight, as they linger there, as they gaze at one another, and he wants to kiss that smile, kiss it until she sighs against his lips, until she moans into his mouth, until she pushes herself so hard against his body that the door handle digs into his back.

She’s close too. When did she end up so close? Was it him or her? It’s his hand moving toward her, though. His hand cupping the side of her head, feeling silky hair between his fingers. His head leaning in closer. His wits finally doing something good for once and steering his lips to her forehead instead of her mouth.

She doesn’t smile after that. But the look in her eyes--gods, that _look_. It’s enough for him to take himself in hand the moment he’s safe behind the door of his own chamber and fantasize about a world where he wouldn't have to leave her after dark. Where he belongs in her bed and can stay until morning. Where he can wake up, warm and content, with his arms full of a woman his mind might've forgotten, but his body still remembers that he loves.


	8. Rules of Attraction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess this is slightly NSFW. Things are heating up! (no smut though)

Clouds hang like sheets to dry, pale, wet, and heavy. Not one hint of blue peers through. Even the sun struggles to show its location. Snow will come, the lady thinks, watching that milk-pale sky. They’ve yet to see the dragon again. Perhaps that creature of fire doesn’t like the cold. Perhaps it'll stay away for as long as this cold lingers. _Snow please come_ , the lady prays to gods who’ll hopefully listen to their worshipers even now when all she can remember of them is that some are old and others new.

The Dragon Queen wants to send out men to search for the dragon and, in today’s meeting, said so in a tone that meant she wasn’t expecting protests. The wolf sword man either didn’t care or didn’t hear it, as he argued they can’t afford to send out men _and_ horses when everyone is needed here, at the castle. 

“ _Your_ castle,” the Dragon Queen said.

“Aye, _my_ castle. But it’s not just _my_ men injured in the great hall, is it. It’s not just _my_ men who need food. It’s not just _my_ men who need repaired walls to keep the heat in and it’s not just _my_ men who need fire in the hearths.”

“And isn’t that why we should send out men? A small search party in each direction--north, east, south, west--to see what is out there. The sooner we learn the truth, the sooner I can go home.”

She should’ve started with that, the lady thinks. He _might’ve_ been amenable to the idea, then. He might’ve found the risk worth it for they can barely go through a meeting without the wolf sword man and the Dragon Queen butting heads over something or other. But the woman doesn’t seem to be strategically inclined and her talk of the dragon scared everyone into agreeing with the wolf sword man when he pointed out they don’t know what’s out there. Eagerly, they filled in his arguments for him. No one knows the land anymore. Snow storms might rage all over the kingdom. Lakes might be hidden beneath snow and surprise a party by cracking underfoot and then it might be too late. They don’t even know whether there are more armies of the dead--or even armies of the living. Rivaling kingdoms or clans with their memories intact who’ll attack at the sight of unfamiliar people.

“If we send people out there, they might not return. And we can’t afford to lose horses either,” he said, tone grim. “You’re from Essos. You don’t know true winter. If it comes to that, we might need to eat the horses.”

“My dragon might remember home. If I find it, I can leave and I’ll take all my men with me and then you won’t have to worry about food anymore.”

“As long as we work this hard to keep everyone alive and well, it’s not a priority--"

"And yet you're preparing for a feast."

The Hand smiled at her. "It's needed to boost morale, Your Grace. Even workers need entertainment and joy to perform well."

"Once our man in the library finds a map we know, without a doubt, is of _this_ land,” the wolf sword man said, tapping the table with his forefinger, “we can discuss that matter again. Until then, we should _all_ make ourselves useful.”

After his words, he locked eyes with her as if attempting to bore that message into her, and something ignited in the Dragon Queen’s gaze that set the lady’s teeth on edge. But then the Dragon Queen’s face split into a smile that looked more like a knife than courtesy and she rose before anyone else and left the chamber with her advisers.

Barely an hour later, she showed up in the infirmary for the first time, her knife-like smile turned warm and bright with the Translator behind her like a mother encouraging her child to take part.

Unfair as it is, the lady will admit she assumed it would only be an appearance. That the Dragon Queen would mop a forehead or two, hold the hand of one dying child while dabbing at her wet eyes, and then leave to do whatever it is she does all day. But she shrugged off her coat and sat on bedsides and helped the patients to water and broth, spoon-feeding them herself. She wiped pus from wounds and redressed them without wrinkling her nose. She listened to dying men’s last words, holding their hands and smiling benevolently down at them while they gazed up at her as if she were sent there by the gods themselves.

An hour passed. Two. Still the Dragon Queen stayed, filling the room with her presence. When the wolf sword man stopped by to discuss something with the maester, she even made sure to help an injured man close by and shot the wolf sword man many looks to ensure he took notice. The lady could barely stop herself from rolling her eyes and left the great hall for some air. That’s when Ghost found her and led her up here, as if he knew she needed just this.

On a clear day, the view up here must be a tranquil thing with its snowy fields and patches of woods stretching out all the way to snow-dusted mountains. She imagines that it’s a favorite spot of hers. A place to breathe in crisp air and center herself before she puts her queen’s face back on and gets to work. 

A tiny snowflake lands on her gloved hand resting on the parapet. Another joins it. She turns her face skyward and, watching more flakes drift lazily from the overcast sky, whispers a thank you to the gods. Then she heads back toward the walkways, Ghost trailing after on silent paws. 

  
  


* * *

The Wolf King bends his knees, grabs a stone, and puts it in a now full wheelbarrow he then pushes to the wall some of his men are repairing. For such a small man, he’s strong and graceful. And that stamina... He’s been at it for a good while now without complaints, working just as hard as his men despite being their king. Wants to send her a message, no doubt. Show off. Oh, the Dragon Queen is sure he knows she’s up here admiring him from her place on the balcony just as she knew he came to watch her in the great hall.

She’d rather see him sparring, though. After a few days in this dreary castle, she aches for entertainment and there’s something about men fighting that excites. But, according to him, they have no time for sparring. They have no time for anything but work--and that feast, where ale will flow...

“What do you think he’s like?” she asks her adviser. “In bed.”

Her adviser blushes prettily. “I don’t know that I have any experience in the matter, Your Grace. I wouldn’t know how to determine such a thing.” She leans a little closer. “Are you sensing a bond after all?”

They have discussed it, of course. There _was_ something there from the start--something faint enough she wrote it off as attraction before her adviser wondered whether they’d come here because of a marriage alliance. And so, for a day, the Dragon Queen entertained the idea.

But her chamber was clearly a guest chamber, most of her items still in the travel chest--and none of it personal. Just clothes and jewelry and hair brushes and bath oils and perfumes and colors for her lips and cheeks and lashes. The bond she feels to her fallen hero, the man who died protecting her while the Wolf King was off only the gods know where doing only the gods know what, is so strong and painful she suspects he _was_ her husband, no matter what others say. And then there are the stretch marks… 

When her adviser noticed them as she dressed her, the Dragon Queen finally understood the gaping emptiness in her chest. The emptiness that urges her to search and find and _act_. She is a mother. She has a child. A child alone and frightened somewhere in the world, waiting for his mother to return. She’s here as an ally, that’s all, and that infuriating man is keeping her here for no good reason when she needs to find her dragon and go _home_.

“I’m considering seducing him,” she says. “If he likes women. The red-haired lady is rather beautiful and he’s not taken her to his bed. Do you think he prefers men?”

“Do you think this is wise, Your Grace? You are his guest and--”

“Yes. I am his guest. I have no power here. _He_ does. When he speaks people listen. When he commands, people obey. When he acts, people follow his example. And you’ve seen what he’s like. He doesn’t listen to women. The only way to defeat a man like that is either on the battlefield or in the bed. And there’s no need to spill blood over this when I can wrap him around my finger once he’s soft and sated in my arms.” 

Down in the courtyard, the Wolf King leans back to evade a hammer playfully tossed from one worker to the other, his body graceful and lean, his face creasing with a rare smile.

“I might even enjoy it,” she murmurs. “He’s a handsome man. And when we argue…” She smiles to herself, remembering the heat between ser Lion and ser Lady Knight. Working yourself up like that and then working it out in a whole different way… She wouldn’t mind that. She wouldn’t mind that at all. “There’s something there. You can tell, no? A man only gets that angry with a woman when he wants her in his bed.”

“But, Your Grace, his wife--”

“That woman is not his wife. I have watched them since our talk. They have no bond, no interest in one another. He barely looks at her once if he can help it and she seemed more drawn to that dead man.”

“It’s worth considering they’re hiding a mutual attraction in fear of the theory being wrong.”

The Dragon Queen shakes her head fondly at her sweet, naïve adviser. “You have no experience. I believe it. Attraction is a powerful thing and these people? Look at that man.” She nods at him. “A practical man, not a politician. None of them are. They’re built for harsh conditions and survival. They might know how to play at war and survive winters, but they’re out of their depths when it comes to playing the game. They have no time for it.”

She hums, eyes narrowed. Yes, that feast... Once he’s relaxed, once good spirits and plenty of ale have softened that gruff exterior of his, then she’ll work her magic--

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but…” Her adviser looks at her with wide, innocent eyes, her hands clasped before her.

“Go on. It’s your duty to offer me counsel, so offer me counsel.”

“I’m sure Your Grace is right, but... What if you’re not. What if they _are_ married?”

“A small issue. Husbands cheat. It’s a wife’s lot to accept that. Especially if she’s married to a man who doesn’t like being challenged by a woman. He’s the king. She’s the pretty thing on his arm whose only purpose is to whelp him little wolf cubs. That’s all. I won't interfere with that nor will I keep him on a leash once I'm done. And if they’re _not_ married, then… Well, it’s hardly a bad thing to wrap an ally around your finger. Nor an enemy, if that’s what we turn out to be…”

She quirks her lips into a smirk and returns her gaze to the Wolf King, her fingers curled around the railing, her eyes locked on his thigh muscles play beneath the fabric of his breeches.

“I’ll tame that wolf,” she says. “I’ll have him eating out of my hand in no time at all. You’ll see.”

* * *

Hidden by shadows, the lady leans against the wall, one hand resting on Ghost’s head. He’s the one who stopped her by blocking her path and looking up at her with a warning in his red eyes before prowling closer as if to tell her to sneak. Remembering how well sound traveled in the walkways, she did. Soon she heard them too, the Dragon Queen and her adviser. She heard enough for something black and viscous to slither around her heart and fill her belly until she felt sick.

Drawing in quiet breaths and watching the tiny snowflakes grow fat and fill the sky like feathers shook from a ruptured pillow, the lady stays in the shadows until the Dragon Queen and the Translator have left.

Her hands shake. Her cheeks burn. Her body feels light and heavy and tight and loose all at once and she doesn’t understand it, how merely hearing of plans--plans she knows will fail for the wolf sword man would _never_ \--would leave her in this state. 

She rushes to her chamber, Ghost darting off somewhere as if he can sense she needs to be alone. There she fills the washbasin with snow from the ledge outside her window and uses it to cool down her face and wrists and neck, the snow melting against her body heat and sliding down her skin to be soaked up by the collar of her dress. Then she sinks down on her bed and waits for that black feeling to leave her heart.

* * *

With one hand, he removes the leather tie of his bun and shakes his hair free. The other hand moves to the laces of his doublet. Once it’s open, he tugs the undershirt from his breeches and loosens the laces at the hollow of his throat. Even in this drafty castle, he’s hot enough after hours of work his clothes stick uncomfortably to his skin. He’ll have to peel them off before sinking into the bath waiting for him in his chamber. It feels good, though, putting his body to use instead of bickering in meetings and discussing food stores and-- 

A shuddering breath interrupts his thoughts. Before him stands the beautiful lady, hand still on the handle of the open door to her chamber, eyes traveling down his body, lips parted in the most tantalizing way. She licks them--and there’s that look again, that heat--

“You shouldn’t undress in the hallway,” she says, averting her gaze. “Someone could see your…” She gestures vaguely at his chest.

A quick look tells him his scar is covered. “I was hot. I needed to… I’m having a bath. I’ve been working.”

“I know; I saw you,” she says, leaning to the side to glance behind him.

“You… watched?”

“Join me in my chamber first,” she whispers, words rushed. “It won’t take a moment.”

He swallows, his thoughts taking a turn that must be written clearly on his face for she all but tuts at him.

“I’m not trying to seduce you. Someone else might, though,” she mutters and, after taking another glance at the hallway behind him, grabs him by his undershirt and pulls him into her chamber. Closes the door. Grabs his hand and pulls him farther into the room where they huddle close as if she fears the very walls have ears. “I overheard the Dragon Queen. Unless she can make you see reason and agree to send out men, she’ll resort to seduction.”

“She’ll _what_? But I'm… She believes you’re my wife.”

“No, she doesn’t. What we’ve been doing? It’s working. Not that it matters. She’d try either way because she’s arrogant enough to be sure she’d succeed--and she’s getting desperate. She wants to go home.”

“I know she does, but sending men out there now-- _Essosi_ men--among all that snow when we don’t know what’s out there, it’s _mad_. We’d have to send our own men with them for them to even stand a chance and even so, we’ll be lucky if half of them return. And what if they do find a dragon? What’s to say it won’t attack them? Eat them? What’s to say it won’t have flown away by the time they’ve come back here and we have to do it all over again! If that dragon’s even here. It’s probably back in Essos by now and sending men out to find it… I’d be sending them to their deaths!”

“I know,” she murmurs, her hands coming up to rest on his chest.

With an exhale, he leans into that grounding touch and lets it abate the agitation that rose within him during his outburst. “I don’t understand her,” he says. “I really don’t. There’s no good outcome. She’s being nothing but selfish. I can’t believe we care more about her own men than she does.”

“She’s a queen--and queens are used to getting what they want. That entitlement is stitched into the very fabric of their being. A memory loss won’t change that.”

“You think it’s stitched into mine, then?”

Her smile turns wry. “You can be a bit stubborn.”

He rolls his eyes fondly at her. “Not like her, I hope.”

“No. Not like her,” she murmurs, blue eyes shining with something he dares not name but still is willing to drink in until he feels dizzy from it. “Those men are _her_ men. She can do with them as she likes. It’s her right.”

He has to shake himself out of his stupor to understand they're returning to the tiring subject. “Aye," he says, "but should she?”

“No, she shouldn’t. But she will. She’s not a patient woman. The only reason she hasn’t sent her men out already is out of courtesy to you. Because she is your guest. Because she’s honoring your truce. You know that, don’t you? But she’ll grow tired of this and she’ll send out her men whether she has your blessing or not, so why not give it?”

“Her men will die.”

“Some of them, yes. But she’s willing to pay that price to find her dragon--and we have to be willing to pay that price to protect the truce.”

He frowns. “You don’t think she would… With the dragon.”

“I thought you believed it. I thought that was why you refused to give her some of our men.”

“It has occurred to me. More than once. I don’t think she would, though. But that doesn’t mean I trust the dragon. We don’t know how much that creature remembers. And if someone leads it back here…” He shakes his head. “But, no, I don’t think she would. She might be spoiled, but she’s not a monster.”

“Ghost remembers. This might not have affected animals. Besides, you said it yourself, her men will probably not find the dragon.”

“So we’d be, what, sacrificing a few good men to keep the peace? I don’t like that.”

“Neither do I.”

He heaves a sigh. “I’m worried. That thing terrifies me.”

“Me too,” she whispers, hands sliding up to his shoulders, curling around his neck. 

He closes his eyes and allows himself to be tucked close to her, resting his cheek on her shoulder and burying his nose in the crook of her neck to breathe in the rosy scent of her even though he knows he shouldn’t, knows he shouldn’t encircle her waist with his arms, knows he shouldn’t stand there and enjoy her fingers raking through his hair, knows he shouldn’t moan quietly against her skin--

With a tremulous breath, she steps back. Releases him. He nearly tumbles after, blinking his eyes open groggily.

“You need a bath,” she says.

He smiles crookedly. “You don’t like the way I smell?”

“Didn’t say that,” she murmurs, eyes warm. “ _Go_.”

“I will but--” He catches her hand and tugs her a step closer. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’ve known me for a few days. You’d be fine.” She grabs his shoulders and turns him around, pushing him toward the door. “Go have your bath, Your Grace. You can’t show up like this for supper. And tell her today. It’ll make her happy."

* * *

It does make her happy. She’s in a terrific mood throughout supper and, first thing the following morning, the Dragon Queen sends out twelve of her own men, three in each direction. Despite the wolf sword man's suggestion that they could wait a few more days so his men could teach them how to survive in snowy landscapes. Despite the snow still falling thick and heavy. Despite the wind being a little sharper than it was yesterday. Despite the sun still sleeping somewhere beneath the horizon.

At least they have provisions and thick furs around their shoulders the red-haired leader of the wild people was kind enough to donate.

“Ride until noon,” the Dragon Queen tells her poor men. “Then return.”

Around dusk three horses return. No riders. In the evening one lonely man staggers through the gates, frozen stiff. Once he's thawed, eaten, and slept, they learn he and his friends slid down a slope and fell into a rushing river. He alone made it out. And, at midnight, he's still the only one out of twelve who's returned. The Dragon Queen stands stubbornly out on the battlements, waiting, her retinue shivering behind her. The rest of them retire.

The wolf sword man stays late in the lady’s chamber, staring into the fire and blaming himself for the lives lost. She rubs the tension from his shoulders until he’s dozing off and then, as she passes him to sit down in her own chair and let him rest for a moment, he grabs her by the waist and pulls her down on his lap. A surprised noise escapes her. He stares up at her, wide awake suddenly, as if his sleep-muddled mind acted on his wishes without his permission

It’s a dangerous thing, pretending they’re not drawn to one another in public while testing the boundaries they’ve drawn in private. She should get to her feet and bid him goodnight, she knows she should, but it feels so good wrapping her arms around his shoulders while he wraps his arms around her waist. It feels so good nuzzling his hair while he burrows his face into the crook of her neck again. It feels so good being all wrapped up in one another and wondering whether they’ve ever sat like this too.

It feels too good to give up. And so she stays. She stays until his hands slide down to her hips and his breath is hot against her collarbone and she fists his hair and his lips brush against her skin and she wonders whether she's ever felt those lips against her own, feverishly, desperately... Only then, when she’s so close to giving in it frightens her, does she leave his lap on shaky legs and see him to the door.

* * *

The three soldiers who rode south return in the morning, a bit worse for wear but unharmed. They’ve seen the black dragon. Tried to follow it too, but it was too quick. The Dragon Queen wants to send out more men in that area, to really scour it for a lair, to set up camp, and she wants horses, provisions, more furs and scarves and hats and gloves, and the wolf sword man’s men. And so the fighting starts. They’ve already lost eight men and five horses. There’s no way of knowing whether the dragon’s lair is anywhere near where it was sighted. Dragons must be able to fly fifty miles per hour at the very least! How long is she planning on staying out there, anyway? Does he need to send out food to them regularly? Haven’t they indulged her enough? And the Dragon Queen doesn’t look as if she enjoys the bickering now. She looks almost like a dragon herself, eyes narrowed into slits, nostrils wide as if ready to spew fire, and her usually plush lips pressed thin.

“You knew this would happen,” she says, voice as hard as her eyes. “You wanted it to happen. To scare me into staying here where you can control me while that man”--she shoots the man in fine robes a hard look; he looks as calm as ever--” _pretends_ to search for something useful. It can’t take this long to find a map. It can’t take this long to know the name of the family this castle belongs to. How do I know you’re not deceiving me, hm?”

“We could’ve thrown you out! You and your men. But we've housed you, fed you, healed you--”

“It’s the least you could do after what I did for _you_. Fighting in this strange war that stole all of our memories. If it did. _You_ might remember, for all I know.” She puts her hands on the table and stands with such force the chair pushes back behind her. “How do I know you’re not lying? How do I know you’re not my enemy? That this war wasn't between me and my dragon, and you and your wizard boy who could raise the dead and take my memories. How do I know that you’re not working with someone behind my back so they can invade my kingdom and steal my throne while I’m stuck up here and my dragon is lost in a snowstorm!”

The lady feels the wolf sword man draw in a breath, his body tensing as if he’ll get to his feet too and start shouting, and she acts without thinking. Lays a hand on his thigh beneath the table. Squeezes him. Tells him the only way she can that he needs to calm down and shut up already before the truce is thoroughly broken.

He goes entirely still under her touch.

The Dragon Queen’s brow knits, her eyes moving between him and the lady.

“My king,” the lady says in her most respectful voice. “I have a suggestion, if you don’t mind?”

He gives a terse nod.

“Your Grace,” she says to the Dragon Queen. “Considering the circumstances, your worry is understandable. We can’t demand your trust, but I hope you believe me when I say we’re grateful for your help in this war. Together, we saved the world.”

Breathing in deeply, the Dragon Queen straightens her posture and releases that breath slowly, calmly.

“You’ve been very patient and understanding, while we’ve been too focused on the practical needs around the castle to treat you with the respect you deserve, as our guest and our ally. The maester tells me several of the patients are doing better. That means Gentle can help in searching the library and, perhaps, so can the Translator. If you can spare her?”

The Dragon Queen lowers herself back in her chair. “Go on, my lady.”

“While they search the library, our men can train your men. They need to learn how to build shelters and how to--”

The door bursts open. A soldier stands there, panting, snow caked to his clothes, face frost bitten. He speaks in his own language and whatever he says must be excellent news, for the Dragon Queen beams like a summer sun and rushes out of there without an explanation, her retinue following behind.

Silence settles over the room. People exchange looks. A rough hand closes around the lady’s own hand and puts it back in her lap. She clasps her hands tightly.

"He was one of the three riding west, I believe," the Hand says. "Bit hard to see under all that snow but..."

"He was. Another dragon has been found,” the man in fine robes says. All eyes turn to him. “Yes, it seems I speak their language.” He smiles a little and there’s no doubt in her mind he’s known this all along. “A green one. It’s injured. Tears in the wing, apparently. But it’s been feeding. They saw charred bones around its lair. The black one must be hunting for them both.”

“Two dragons?” The wolf sword man closes his eyes, pressing his fingers against the scar over his left eye. “Two bleeding dragons?”

The man in fine robes looks at him with empathy. “I will search faster, My King.”

He bows and leaves, the others taking their cue from him and leaving too, and she can’t help but wonder whether there was truth to the Dragon Queen’s accusations. That, perhaps, the man in fine robes, who knows how to keep his voice and face neutral no matter the pressure, _has_ found something and hidden it to keep the peace. 

The wolf sword man leaves his chair and paces the room, shooting a glance out the window every so often as if he expects a dragon to show up any moment and torch them all.

“You need to be nicer to her,” the lady says. “You can’t keep fighting with her like that.”

He stops. “I wasn’t fighting. I was trying to make her see reason so we wouldn’t lose more men and more horses. We've lost so much already. Just take a look outside at the piles of bodies."

"I know, but..." She stands too. "You _were_ fighting. You keep pushing her and pushing her--”

“We were arguing, that’s all. People argue sometimes--”

“It was more than that and you know it. It would’ve gotten worse too had I not stopped you! You would’ve flown to your feet and then you’d be at each other’s throats. You were practically already shouting.”

“It doesn’t mean it’ll end in murder. It’s healthy. Airing out your differences. How would people ever solve anything if they kept tiptoeing around each other?"

“Has it ever occurred to you that you’re from different cultures? Yes, people up here speak more freely, but look at her soldiers! Have you seen more obedient men in your life? She doesn’t accept this kind of behavior and the only reason as to why she’s accepted your temper for this long is because she wants you. But that--”

“She _wants_ me?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb. I told you about her plans of seduction.”

“Manipulation, aye, but you said nothing about her _wanting_ me.”

“Oh, you haven’t noticed. You expect me to believe that?" The lady scoffs. "She keeps looking at you as if she wants to take a bite. She even thinks it’s reciprocated! She thinks she frustrates you because you _want_ her. Why do you think she doesn’t care that I might be your wife? You should’ve heard her. She’s confident you’d say yes.”

He stares at her as if her words are entirely incomprehensible. Then he relaxes, his harsh expression melting away to reveal the softest of smiles as he walks closer to her. “It’s not that kind of fighting.” He takes one of her hands in both of his. “You have nothing to worry about. I swear.”

She gasps. “You think I’m jealous.”

“Well, you do seem a bit jealous.”

“How ridiculous do you think I am? I’m trying to protect us because you have the tact of an aurochs and you think I’m _jealous_?”

“You’re the one who’s talked about people bickering because they want to fuck and now I’m fighting with her and you get all possessive when we’re supposed to be ca--”

“Possessive? How have I been possessive?”

“You put your hand on my thigh!”

“I was trying to be _discreet_.”

He screws his face up. “What?”

“You were antagonizing her! I was trying to get you to stop without interrupting you since you’re such a big baby who thinks I _undermine_ you.”

“So you decide to squeeze my bleeding _thigh_? How is that discreet! You don’t touch a man like that if you want to be discreet! You touch him like that if you want to make him hard!”

The last word comes out in a shout. A shuddering breath follows, the heat of it wafting over her lips. His eyes so dark, so glowing it knocks all sense from her head. She knows only the scent of him, that scent that makes her feel safe and home and needy and _wanting_. Wanting to squeeze and taste and touch, her hands sliding up his arm to cup his muscles, to feel them bulge against her palms. 

“Is this--” Her breathing hitches when his fingers close around her hips. “Is this that kind of fighting?”

He drags his eyes from her lips to look deeply into hers. “Aye, it’s that kind of fighting.”

“You said I had nothing to worry about," she whispers. "After you accused me of being jealous. You know what that implies, don't you?"

"Aye, I know. And so do you. You _know_."

“I wasn’t jealous, though. I really do--”

“I don’t want to talk about her,” he murmurs and leans his forehead against hers, the tips of their noses nudging. “Gods, you’re hard to resist.” He pushes against her, the edge of the table digging into the back of her thighs. Her legs give way and she sinks down, spreads her knees, tugs up her skirts that strain against the weight of him when he moves into the space between her thighs. Whimpers when she feels him hard and hot against her. “We can’t," he breathes out.

“I know,” she murmurs, wriggling to get some pressure on the tingling, throbbing sensation at the center of her.

He bucks against her with a groan. She pushes back, grabbing his hips now and locking her ankles behind his legs so she can grind against him just to feel that sweet relief.

“ _Fuck_.” He pants against her cheek, so close to her lips his mustache tickles the corner of her mouth. “Tell me to stop resisting.” He slides a hand up her thigh, in under her bunched up skirts. “Tell me to stop.”

She closes her eyes. Takes a steady breath. “Stop,” she says. And he does. The air rushes out of him and he staggers back, away from her, flushed and dark-eyed and hard.

“This is not how I want this.” She slides off the table and shakes out the skirts of her dress. “And I don’t think you do either or you wouldn’t ask me to _tell_ you what to do. You wouldn’t ask me to tell you to stop.”

He licks his lips and nods with a shuddering sigh that leaves him slumped against the table, supported by one large hand splayed over the wood. “You should leave. I… I need a moment.”

Her heels click against the flagstones as she moves to the door. There she stops and turns to look at him over her shoulder. “Be nicer to her. She has two dragons. Two.”

“I really don’t think she’s going to attack us. She’s spoiled, aye, and selfish. But the leap from that to mass murdering is pretty far. If she truly were bad, she wouldn’t have come all this way from Essos. She would’ve let us deal with all this on our own.”

“I agree but… We don’t know her. We don’t know what she’s capable of. You’ve said we can’t act on assumptions and that’s true regarding this too. Be nicer. Try harder.”

“I will. And, uh…” He pushes himself to stand up straight with a weary sigh. “We need to stop spending time alone together. We have to be strong. Until we know.”

Disappointment drops heavy and hard like a stone in her gut. But she accepts his words with a nod.

He’s right. If they give in and they’re wrong... It would only make all of this even more complicated.


	9. Pieces of the Puzzle

The girl often sits on the window sill, sucking in fresh air through the slats of the shutters and peering at the courtyard--and at the people working there. The two dragon soldiers who look sweet on one another and steal touches when no one’s watching; the Squire who was the only one noticing her when she sneaked to the kitchens to nick an oatcake and grinned when she put her finger to her lips and mimicked slitting a throat; the patchwork people stealing away with giggling companions for some loving in the night; and the blue-eyed blacksmith who always seems to have time to flirt with the pretty maids who flutter by the forge all too often when they all should be working. Her brother and his wife really should talk to them. Or she’ll do it herself. She’s a princess, isn’t she, and he’s just a stupid blacksmith--

“You should go out for a bit,” her good-sister says. “You seem restless.”

The girl shrugs and turns her attention back to her company. 

Sometimes she sees them too, her brother and his wife. Rarely at the same time, granted, but when they are together, they behave like two people who get along well enough for work to be friction-free but not well enough for a friendship (let alone romance) to flourish.

In here, though, safe from the prying eyes of outsiders, they’re different. They sit closely together. They touch one another’s arms and hands, and nudge one another with their shoulders. They exchange looks and smiles and even blush sometimes when they tell the girl about their day and take turns complimenting one another over a job well done. They’re so sweet the girl’s teeth ache.

Well. Usually. Today, as they tell her about the two dragons, they sit a good distance apart. They barely look at one another. And once, when they touched habitually, they both jolted as if burned and then scooted their chairs even farther apart.

They’ve fucked. She’s sure of it. They’ve fucked and they don’t want her to know it.

They’re so obvious she can barely look at them without rolling her eyes.

“Aye, I agree,” her brother says. “You do seem restless. You can help me for a bit. I wouldn’t mind the company.”

“He needs to eat soon,” the girl says, nodding at the wizard boy. “And then the maester needs help in washing him and turning him over and all that."

“I can do that.” Her good-sister smiles at her. “You go.”

It’s only when the girl and her brother step outside the chamber and turn to close the door that he finally looks at his wife. She’s already moved her chair closer to the wizard’s bed, holding his hand and brushing his hair from his forehead like a doting mother. And in her big brother’s eyes, the girl sees such painful longing she can’t help but wonder whether she’s wrong, after all.

* * *

Sitting by the desk in the chamber that’s become his office, he slouches with a tired sigh and presses a finger to the aching spot behind the scar above his eye. Any other evening, he would’ve been escorting the pretty lady to her chambers at this hour. He would've lingered outside her door and half-heartedly pretended he really had no intention on following her inside--only to follow her inside anyway so they could flirt by the fire before he finally tore himself from her company and dumped himself in a cold, empty bed.

This evening, he’s doing his best to work late. They’re trying to keep a record of the dead by painting numbers on their armor and jotting down that number along with physical attributes in a ledger. The list goes on and on and on, page after page after page. The sheer amount of dead people makes him blanche.

A knock on the door saves him from the gruesome paperwork. It won’t be her, he knows. He saw her and Ghost leave for the night earlier. Still, a small part of him hopes--as foolish as it sounds--that she couldn't stay away from him. Still, his heart sinks a little in his chest when he opens the door and finds not her but the Investigator standing outside, hands tucked into his sleeves as always. _No documents_ , the man thinks with a sigh as he closes he door. _Still no news_. However, after a bow and soft-spoken, “My King,” the Investigator pulls out of his sleeves several scrolls after all and lays them on the desk. They look old, water-damaged and, he notices when some of them unfurl a little, even blood spattered. There’s a map as well. The Investigator spreads it over the desk and weighs down the corners with a wolf figurine, a letter knife, a vat of ink, and a candleholder. 

“We are in the North, Your Grace.” He points at _Winterfell_ written over a small sketch of a castle sat between a forest called the Wolfswood and a river called the White Knife. "I believe this is the castle we’re in because the Starks have ruled the North from Winterfell for thousands of years, and the Starks’ sigil is a direwolf.”

“Stark,” the man breaths out. _Stark_. A shiver flows over his body, the hairs on his arms standing.

_I am a Stark of Winterfell._

"Do you recognize it, My King?"

He clears his throat. "Aye. It sounds familiar." He regards the Investigator. “You don’t expect me to believe you found all this today, do you?”

The Investigator gives a small laugh. “No, My King. I do not. I found quite a lot the first day. Badly damaged books and documents. It seems Winterfell has burned in recent years. I’ve seen some records of this castle briefly belonging to a different House. It might’ve been their doing. Looking at the state of the castle now, however, with all the direwolf banners, I assume your family recovered your ancestral seat. There's no recovering what has been burned, though. By the looks of it, many records were lost forever. Others partially burned or singed. And then there were rats, mold, water damage, blood… It made reading them a challenge, I'm afraid. I had to piece together quite a lot of information and… Well, when I tell you what I found, I’m sure you will understand why I spent many of my hours in the library writing new letters, raven scrolls, and other documents.”

He glances at the scrolls. “You wrote those? They look old.”

“I’m glad to hear it. They’re supposed to look old.” The Investigator smiles. “It seems forgery is a talent of mine. Once the Dragon Queen returns, I shall invite the Translator and Gentle to help me. I will make sure they find some of these documents and I find the rest. To calm the Dragon Queen for a while so I can keep doing my work in peace. They contain no lies, Your Grace. Technically. I’ll merely make certain that the information I present to you both tomorrow is a little less... _specific_ than the information I give you now.”

“What did you find?”

“The Starks have ruled the North for eight thousand years. Until the Targaryen dragon lords of Old Valyria conquered Westeros and forced King Torrhen Stark to kneel. Then the Targaryens ruled all of Westeros from something called the Iron Throne for a few centuries until something happened. What, I do not know. Not yet. I do know that the last person sitting on the throne of Westeros was not a dragon lord but a Baratheon. Their sigil is a stag.”

“I’ve seen no sigil like that among our men."

“Nor have I. It seems the North has been fighting for their independence, which would explain the lack of Baratheon forces."

“So I’m not a king.”

The Investigator hums. “I did see something about a Baratheon son betrothed to a Stark girl. The North and the south might've reached a truce and the North might've been granted their independence. I see no reason to tell people about that small stretch of time when the Starks _didn't_ rule the north. What's the the lifespan of a gnat compared to the lifespan of a dragon?” He smiles again. “And speaking of dragons… I found some correspondence about the Targaryens. Nothing much. Only that the Dragon Queen has spent her life in Essos. She's borne at least one child. And, last anyone heard of her, she was Queen of Meereen.”

“And now she’s here to, what, take back the Iron Throne?"

"Possibly, yes. And you could be helping her in exchange for her help in the war against the dead."

"Even though a Stark girl might be married to the king of Westeros."

"Well," the Investigator says, "perhaps she's helping you. She might be your little spy on the inside."

"Is that what you're going to tell the Dragon Queen?"

"No. certainly not. I will tell her the Starks have ruled for thousands of years. That the person sitting on the throne of Westeros is a Baratheon, and that she’s a Targaryen of Old Valyria who conquered the city of Meereen at a young age and has ruled it ever since. The Targaryen _are_ originally from Essos. That’s all she needs to know for now. She doesn't need to know her family once ruled all of us."

"All of _us_?" The man gives the Investigator a solid once-over. “You speak her language. You could be part of her council. That must’ve occurred to you.”

“Yes, of course. But I hope that whomever I was before all this had better judgment than that."

“You think she’s dangerous.”

“Hm… No,” he says, slowly. “Not dangerous. But arrogant. She seems to enjoy the _idea_ of being queen. She likes the attention, the respect, the deference. But she doesn’t seem particularly inclined to ask herself what she can do with that privilege. She’s much more concerned about what that privilege will do for her. It’s expected of a princess, of course, but a queen--a ruling queen--must be better than that. She should be like… Well, like your wife.”

The man laughs to hide how his heart beats a little faster. “Yeah? You found some evidence we’re married, then.”

The Investigator picks up one of the scrolls and hands it to him. “I found this. For you to keep, My King. It’s badly damaged, I’m afraid, but it might shed at least some light on the situation.”

* * *

Her hair falls over her shoulders in the glossy, coppery waves of recently unbraided hair. One hand holds the door open, the other holds her dressing gown shut to cover up her nightrail, her bare feet peeking out beneath the lace-trimmed hem. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispers, eyes shining with hope.

“No, I shouldn’t but--”

He holds up the scroll; she steps aside instantly and lets him in. After sharing all the information the Investigator told him, he spreads the parchment over the small round table by the hearth. It _is_ damaged: half-dipped in water, half-eaten by rats, and entirely blood spattered. But it’s intact enough for them to know it’s a Stark family tree, that his father (Something-ard Stark) had several siblings, a wife, six children, and no grandchildren. The spatter of stains make it impossible to discern any names but Rickon (the youngest who died before adulthood) but it’s clear at least one was a bastard (whose name and birthdate are hidden beneath a big blood stain), that one daughter (ink smudged) was married twice (first to a Tyrion La-something and then to a man whose last name starts with a B), that the eldest son had a short name with an _o_ in the middle, and that said son married a woman whose first name ended with _sa_. 

Brow lightly furrowed, she brings the document to the hearth for better light and, squinting, turns it this way and that. Just like he did himself after the Investigator gave it to him.

“Do you think this is us?” She lays the document back on the table and taps the smudged lines of the eldest son and his wife. “ _O_. _Sa_. It feels right. Doesn’t it?” She stands back with a sigh. “Or do I only want it to…”

Aye, that is the question, isn't it? Those letters do feel familiar, but can he trust anything now that he wants it so badly he can barely think of anything else but finally taking her into his arm and kissing her and--

“At least it should help, shouldn’t it?” she says. “It should help us find something.”

“Aye, it should help.”

She walks closer, the robe now hanging open on her frame. The linen of her nightrail is thankfully thick enough he can’t see anything, but it’s still such an inappropriate (delectable) vision he can’t help but feel uncomfortable warm.

“We might have proof soon,” she says, a smile blooming on her face. 

She’s gorgeous. Irresistible. Possibly his after all and his hands grab her waist and pull her into his embrace. She fits herself against his body and burrows her cool nose into the crook of his neck with a content hum. Hands splayed over the small of her back, he holds her closer still and breathes in the scent of her. _Her_. Not the fresh rosewater scent she cloaks herself with. No, this scent is all her, as if she only just finished dressing for the night and has yet to wash and he gets to sample it, this small sign of intimacy-- 

“We should show it to your sister,” she murmurs into his neck. “Maybe she remembers something.”

She sounds so happy, so light, practically purring in his arms like a pleased kitten. Unbidden, his eyes move to the blotted out bastard in the family tree.

His stomach churns.

Pressing his fingers into her back, he closes his eyes and holds onto her even more tightly.

* * *

“This is me, then,” the girl points at one of the two smudged names between the married-off sister and little Rickon. “Or this. So it’s Rickon and me and wizard boy and a bastard and you and a sister who's probably married to a Baratheon?"

"It doesn't have to be a Baratheon," her big brother says. "It's just a theory."

"And we think, what, that she hates her husband? Or does she hate us? Is she a traitor or an ally?"

"I don't know," he says. “She might not be married to a Baratheon at all. One letter proves nothing."

He sighs deeply and his wife soothes a hand across his back, watching him with worry and empathy in her pale blue eyes. The distance they kept earlier today is gone. They’re close again, leaning into one another, offering strength and support. Like husband and wife. The girl glances at the parchment. _O_ and _sa_.

“Ro-sa,” she says, slowly, trying out how the name feels in her mouth. “Marisa? Lysa…” None of them feel quite right and, as she can’t think of any other names ending with _sa_ , she turns to her brother. “Jory? No. Pod. Rod. Rob? Ross. Joss--”

“You can list names all night,” he says, “we still won’t know whether they’re _our_ names.”

“We’re Starks,” the girl says. “We know that at least.”

Her good-sister slides her hand down the Wolf King’s arm, clutching his hand in both of hers, and gives the breathless smile of a daughter standing with her love in front of her father and waiting for him to agree to a betrothal.

“But you _do_ think it could be us?" she asks. " _O_ and _sa_.”

The girl couldn’t say, really. But those letters do sound familiar--just as familiar as Rickon and Stark and Ghost and Winterfell--and her good-sister looks _so_ hopeful while her brother looks as if he’s too much of a brooding pessimist to hope and needs a little push, and then it’s easy to smile and say, “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

Her good-sister’s smile isn’t wide--it’s a small little thing--and yet she shines brighter than a full moon on a cloudless night. The girl's brother, on the other hand, still looks pensive. His eyes dart to the parchment. He swallows. Then he drops a kiss to his wife’s head.

“You go to bed. I’d like to speak to my sister.”

His wife squeezes his hand with a nod and, along with Ghost, bids them goodnight and leaves. 

The girl's brother stays quiet for a long moment before saying, in a hoarse voice, “That bastard. You think that could be me?”

She shrugs. “You do, apparently.”

“I just can’t shake the feeling that something’s not right. That I don’t belong.”

Humming, she grabs the document again and examines it--really examines it, squinting hard against the hearthlight until her eyes almost tremble in their sockets from the effort. But then she sees it. Something barely legible and entirely damning. Something that must be written on her face for his face falls when she turns to him to share the awful news.

"What," he says, voice even hoarser now.

"I'm sorry. I really am. But it seems our brother is dead. You can’t be him.”

Her brother exhales sharply, a hand pressed against his heart. Then, with frantic fingers, he unlaces his doublet, his undershirt, and tugs the fabric aside. The girl sucks in a breath, gawking at the impossible reveal.

“Seven hells! _How--”_ She reaches out to touch the scar and snatches her hand back the moment she feels the warm, puckered skin against her fingers. "Eugh, that's disgusting."

"Yeah, thanks," he says, retying the laces.

"You _died_. You have to have died. No one could survive--" Her eyes glide to their sleeping brother. “Oh. He did it, didn’t he? We fought a war against something that could resurrect the dead. Only they didn't stay themselves, did they. They came back wrong. Mindless soldiers. But you? You're still a person. Maybe that was what this was. A war between a good wizard and an evil wizard who wanted to turn all of us into those blue-eyed things. And when we killed the evil wizard, all the undead soldiers died for good.”

“A necklace was found, out on the fields. A necklace with a red stone. It could’ve been the bad wizard’s?”

“Yeah! As if her power was in the necklace and when someone managed to tear it off her…”

He breathes out a laugh, shaking his head. “Sounds pretty mad to me."

“Yeah, but you’re here. Even though that sounds mad. And there were giants out there. And there's a woman with _dragons_. And none of us remember anything. That sounds mad too.”

“A curse?”

“Yeah. The evil wizard cursed us right before she died. Stole our memories.”

“Forever?”

The girl shrugs. “Maybe? Yeah. Maybe. Maybe it's the first step. She takes what makes a person be who they are and _then_ she kills them and resurrect them.”

"You think this is fun, do you?"

"It's a bit fun. I've been stuck in here for days. The most entertainment I have is that the Squire sometimes chats with me through the window and he's not _that_ interesting."

"You could leave a little more often."

She shakes her head. "Our brother needs me. I know he does."

"All right." Her big brother nods at the parchment. “You think that could be me, then. The _o_. Now that you know I've died and all.”

The girl folds her arms over her chest and locks eyes with him. “So, is this you wanting me to assuage your worries because you’ve already fucked her. Or is this you wanting my permission because you really want to fuck her?”

He turns so red he looks boiled. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, I'm sorry." She rolls her eyes. "Make _love_."

“We haven’t done anything.”

She quirks a brow. “Really.”

“Uh, we’ve…” He clears his throat, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “We’ve hugged. In a way that…" He turns impossibly redder. "We haven’t even kissed!”

“All right. Calm down.” She holds her hands up, palms out. “Permission, then. Hm... O and sa. It does sound familiar. I think it could be you. I really do.”

“Really?”

“Said so, didn’t--” She finds herself in a sudden hug so tight she has to push him off her. “So, are you off to shag your wife or do you wanna stay for a bit? I’m so bored I’m losing my mind. I’ve got a deck of cards.”

“You remember how to play anything?”

“Nah. We’ll make something up.”

He laughs, all that pensive broodiness gone. “Aye, we seem to be good at that."

* * *

The Dragon Queen returns the following day at noon, her eyes sparkling with joy. While she sends the Translator and one of her guards to the library, she fills in the rest of the council on what happened. The injured green dragon wouldn’t let her touch him, but he allowed her--and only her--to stay close. So she sat down, a few feet from him, and waited, talking to him and cheering his successful but brief attempts at flying with his injured wing. She slept there too, close enough to feel the heat radiating from the enormous beast. And then, early in the morning, the black one returned with two narwhals he roasted for himself and his brother.

“I could feel something,” she says. “A bond. So I approached him. The black one. He moved closed to me and sniffed me and...” The smile that spreads on her face leaves the lady almost unsettled. “He let me touch him. I stroked his nose. Rubbed his chest. And after a while, he let me climb onto his back. He’s mine. I could feel it. The black one is _mine_.”

So wrapped up in her own joy, she doesn’t seem to notice the unease that spreads in the room nor the looks exchanged by the others. The rest of the day is quiet, the unease seeping into every corner of the castle as the news moves from mouth to ear to mouth to ear. If she can control that dragon, if she can ride it and tell it to rain fire down over the world…

The lady shrugs off those thoughts. The Dragon Queen could’ve lied to them and either pretended she had no bond with the dragons to get a strategic upper hand, or she could’ve pretended it allowed her to fly to intimidate the others. She did neither. And she looks happy too, practically floating around Winterfell. She even spends two hours in the infirmary, gracing the patients with her presence while they wait to be moved to a smaller chamber, even though the wolf sword man is busy preparing for tomorrow’s feast.

At supper, the Translator, Gentle, and the man in fine robes turn up with information to present. While their food cools, they show them all stained raven scrolls, old letters, and documents, and the Translator nods to the Dragon Queen as if to say it’s all legitimate. That she’s inspected it all herself. Still, the Dragon Queen wants to read a few of the scrolls with her own eyes.

“‘My lord,’” she reads, “‘my friend in Meereen tells me the Dragon Queen has found herself a future husband. Hizdahr of House Loraq. It seems she’s settling down...’" She lowers the scroll, her strong brows tugged upward in despair. "Hizdahr. _My_ Hizdahr. And now he’s gone… He died protecting me. His wife. His love. His queen.” She lays down the scroll and straightens her posture. “The Queen of Meereen.” 

“Does it sound familiar, Your Grace,” the lady asks.

“It does. It sounds right. And this…” She picks up another raven scroll. “This one mentions the Dragon Queen’s children. I knew I was a mother.” She holds the scroll to her heart with one hand while she cups her flat stomach with the other. “It’s time I return home, to Meereen, to my _children_. I’ll stay for the feast, then my green dragon should be well enough to fly.” Smiling, she walks to the wolf sword man and takes his hand. “We shall impose on you no longer, Your Grace. I can’t thank you enough for your hospitality and your help.”

“No, thank _you_. For helping us in this war.”

“I wonder why I did.” She tilts her head to the side, peering at him. “What is my connection to the North?”

“Perhaps you helped us out of the goodness of your heart," the wolf sword man says. "Perhaps we needed your dragons, wrote to you, and you wanted to do the right thing."

The man in fine robes smiles at her. “You, Your Grace, are better than any hero from a song. You saved the whole world. Just imagine what would’ve happened had this battle been lost. The wizard would’ve taken her armies south and soon all of Westeros would’ve been dead while her army would've been millions of men strong. The biggest army the world has ever seen.”

“And then she’d take that army to Essos. To Meereen. She would've taken what's mine.” Nodding, the Dragon Queen lets go of the wolf king’s hand and returns to her seat. “Yes. I saved the world. I stopped a monster. And perhaps”--she shoots the lady and the wolf sword man and almost intimate smirk--”once you two have children, we could discuss a match between your children and mine. To nurture this fine relationship we have established. That might've been part of our agreement, don't you think?"

“Your Grace,” the Translator says, “should we not wait to leave until our memories return?”

“ _If_ they return.” The Dragon Queen sips from her wine cup. “I’m not going to wait here indefinitely for something that might not even happen when my children need me.” She looks at the wolf sword man. “Send me a courier, if your memories return or if you find more useful information, and I shall do the same.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

“Good. That’s settled." The Dragon Queen beams at them. "Let’s eat.”

* * *

All through supper, he wanted to take the pretty lady's hand beneath the table. He wanted to smile at her and laugh at her jokes and look at her as if she's the most wonderful woman in the world, because she is, but he held back. He held back and so did she. Until they have more solid proof, they're keeping the Stark family tree private and control themselves in public. The moment they’re safe in the shadowy quiet of their hallway, however, this wonderful woman who might be his wife takes his hand and twines their fingers together. She even leans into him as she walks, looking almost a little drunk even though she drank only water at supper.

“Everything is working out so well,” she says. “The Dragon Queen will finally leave and--"

"That doesn't worry you? What if she returns to Meereen and is told something that makes her feel deceived. What if she truly came here to conquer Westeros?"

"The moment she leaves, we'll start building weapons that could take down a dragon. We'll protect the North and Winterfell. We'll protect our home." They’ve reached her door now and, still holding his hand, she turns around and leans her back against the door, looking at him with hooded eyes. " _Our_ home."

"There's no doubt in your mind, is there? That we're married."

"There's doubt in yours?"

“Until we have undeniable proof, aye, I’ll be unsure. I don’t want to dishonor you.”

“Does that mean you’re not joining me in my chamber tonight?” She tugs him closer and looks at him through her lashes. “Not even if I promise I'll be good?”

He lets out a breathy laugh. “You’re telling me we’ll do nothing?”

“We have proven we can control ourselves.”

“Aye, we have.”

He drags a hand over his mouth. They _really_ have.

"It'll be like every other night. Just you and I, in front of the hearth, unwinding before bed."

“Separate beds.”

“Yes." She opens the door a bit. "Separate beds.”

“In separate chambers.”

“Yes,” she says, laughing, “in separate chambers.”

She hasn’t mentioned the Stark bastard. That it might be him. As far as he can tell, it hasn’t even occurred to her. But then, what bastard is raised in his father’s castle? He wouldn’t be here. Or, if he would, if his brother's widow sent for him and whatever armies he could bring from wherever he was fostered, he at least wouldn’t have the second nicest chamber. He wouldn’t. It would’ve been the wizard boy’s chamber or his little sister’s chamber while he got a guest room. And he certainly wouldn’t have all those bespoke clothes with the wolf sigil.

And, if his trueborn brother died, why wouldn't the wizard resurrect _him_?

No, he’s _not_ the bastard. He feels wrong, as if he doesn’t belong, because he died. He died and his wizard little brother resurrected him so he could lead them in this war. That’s all.

The pretty lady takes a step backwards, still holding his hand, their arms extended.

 _Well?_ her smile seems to say. _Are you coming or not?_

Smiling too, he lets himself be led into the dimly lit chamber.

They _have_ proven they can control themselves. They’ll unwind, that’s all. They'll stay up for a while, talk about their day, and then they'll say goodnight and go to sleep in separate chambers. Nothing will happen between them tonight. Nothing at all. 


	10. The Walls Did Crumble and Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Absolutely very much NSFW

She sits there opposite him, half her hair aglow and brushed out, the other half tumbling over her shoulder in thin glossy locks. He’s watched her tend to her hair almost every night now, how she starts with the end of her tresses and brushes out all the knots before she brushes the full lengths. He wants to try it himself, wants to feel that silkiness between his fingers, wants to feel her shiver with pleasure beneath his touch.

“You’re staring,” she murmurs.

He smiles softly at her. “Can’t help it.”

The admonishing look she shoots him is far too fond to do any harm. 

When she starts brushing the rest of her hair, she sighs and lays down the brush and uses her fingers to work out an especially stubborn knot at the back of her neck. It looks cumbersome, her frustration writ in the crease between her brows, and he’s offering his help without even thinking. A help she accepts by handing him the brush with a smile, moving her chair close to his, turning it sideways, and sitting down with her back to him.

Gingerly, he lifts away a swath of hair to expose the knot. It’s big and frizzy around a bit of lint, and he thinks about last night. How he came to her with the family tree when she was ready for bed, how he waited outside while she threw a dress and cloak over her nightrail and quickly re-braided her hair, how late the hour was once she finally returned to her chamber, how she knocked on his door this morning, clutching the bodice of her unlaced dress to her chest. 

“The only clean dresses I have left are laced up the back,” she said.

She still doesn’t employ a handmaiden, still thinks those hands are too important elsewhere to be wasted on her. And all he could think was how _he_ was the one allowed to dress her--and whether he’d ever be the one to undress her. He didn’t think about the state of her hair, but thinking back now… Aye, they both got to bed late and they both overslept a bit. She must’ve collapsed in bed as she was, messy braid, dress, and all, and not had time to remove the snags sleeping created before she tidied up her braid and knocked on his door. He knows well how easily his own curls get tangled after rubbing against linen all night. And she, although she seems to do some womanly magic to straighten them, has some curls too. He’s seen it when snow melts in her hair and it dries in front of the fire. She gets a halo of frizz then, like the finest copper wool, and tiny curls in the soft hair framing her forehead and temples.

He’s gentle, takes his time, is gentler still when she sucks in air through her teeth or gives the tiniest little jolt and tenses up. And once that knot is gone, he brushes the rest of her hair in slow strokes from the crown of her head all the way down to the small of her back just because he can. Just so he can keep hearing the soft noises of contentment she gives and see today’s tension fade as her body grows heavier and heavier until she lolls back with every stroke. Once he’s done and puts the brush aside, she even collapses against his chest, the back of her head resting against his collarbone.

He wants to whisper into her ear, “Did you like it?” in a husky voice. But that’s a bit too bold, isn’t it? He wants to brush her hair aside, drop kisses along her shoulder to the top of her spine, and kiss the long neck always hidden beneath braids and pelts and collars. But that’s even bolder. He wants to grab her hips and hoist her onto his lap and secure her there with an arm around her and that wouldn’t just be bold but foolish. But she’s sat on his lap before and nothing happened. And she’s so close. It would be easy, it would be quick, and his hand makes the decision for him, already ghosting over her waist.

She shudders when his fingers dance across her stomach. Sighs when his arm winds around her body. Scoots backwards when he gives a tug. Shifts when he pulls at her hip until she sits across his lap, one arm slung around his shoulders, her breasts so close to his face he can feel the metal of her round necklace against his chin.

“Is this really safe?” she murmurs.

_No._

“Aye. You promised you’d be good.”

She hums thoughtfully, pulling free the leather tie keeping his hair in a bun. “As far as I remember, I never did promise."

He closes his eyes when her fingers rake through his hair. “No, you didn’t, did you.”

“Is this being bad, though?” she whispers and presses her lips softly, softly against his temple, still finger-combing his hair, and nothing about this feels bad at all.

He basks in it, in the slightest bite of her nails against his scalp, in the feather-soft kisses dropped to his forehead and cheekbone, and in the warmth of her on his lap, so loving, so tender--and he _wants_. He wants to crane his neck to give her room to keep dropping those kisses down his throat, he wants her to tilt her head and kiss him properly, he wants to be the one who undresses her after all and the one who dresses her too, the morning after--and now his blood pulses red-hot when they’re supposed to _behave_. 

For all their speculating and theorizing, they don’t really know. Not undoubtedly.

Why would the maester write down his date of death if the wizard resurrected him? Maybe the real king of the North died and died for good and he’s just the resurrected bastard.

In an instant, he’s lifted her off his lap and gotten to his feet. Moved to the window. There he opens the shutters to let in some air, to cool his blood, to soften. When he really should go to bed. _His_ bed. Aye. He should. He will.

But then he hears something, a low sound echoing through the courtyard, and he turns around without thinking and waves at her to join him.

“Do you hear that?” He holds out his arm and allows her to fit herself snuggly into his embrace. To keep her warm. That’s all. “Music. Someone’s singing.”

Holding onto the window sill, she lifts herself up on tiptoes and peers outside. His hands remain on her waist. Keeping her safe and secure. That’s all.

“It’s the Squire,” she says. “He’s serenading your sister.”

He chuckles. “She really is desperate for entertainment.”

The lady lowers herself onto her feet. Through the curtain of red hair, he can glimpse the soft skin of her neck and he can’t help but wonder whether he’s ever really seen a woman’s bare neck. Whether he’s ever seen _her_ neck. Touched it. Smelled it. Kissed it.

She’s a little taller than him. He’d have to get up on tiptoes too to nose away the strands of hair and kiss her neck. But that would be bold and foolish and dangerous. Intimate. There’s no excuse for that other than wanting something he shouldn’t have. Instead, he links his arms around her waist again, rests his check against her shoulder blade, and returns to pretending it’s all to keep her warm so she can keep enjoying the singing.

“I remember this song,” she says, a dreamy quality to her voice, and sways to the music, sways in his arms. “Do you remember?”

She hums along wordlessly at first and then, as if the lyrics come to her, she sings along properly to this song about a lonely woman dancing with her ghosts. Dancing with the people she loved and lost. Dancing alone.

She trails off in the middle of a phrase and goes still in his arms.

“You don’t really believe we’re married, do you?”

“I told you: I don’t want to dishonor--”

“Stop. Tell me the truth. There’s something you’re not telling me. I know there is.”

He closes his eyes with a sigh. “The bastard. I think I might be the bastard.”

She’s quiet for a moment. Then she says in a faraway voice, “My fear is you’re right. My fear is we’ll wake up one morning with our memories back and we’ll not be married. That I’ll be someone else’s wife. That you’ll be someone else’s husband. That we’ll have missed our chance. Every day that we do nothing, we’re missing another chance to be together. At least once.” She turns around in his arms and looks into his eyes, her hands a gentle weight on his shoulders. “I don’t care anymore. I don’t want to be good. I want _you_. I want to be with you and I don’t want to lose my chance.”

He releases a shaky breath and she must’ve seen his answer in his eyes, for she steps away from him with a tired exhale. Turns back to face the window. To sway to the music. To dance alone.

His sword rests against the wall. His boots stand neatly next to the chair he’s come to see as his. His cloak hangs over the backrest. He’ll get them tomorrow. He’ll leave her now. He walks across the floor. He takes the door handle, the metal cool against his skin.

If he wakes up tomorrow and they’re married, they’ve wasted a lot of time on being unnecessarily miserable. And if they’re _not_ married--and they can’t marry either--what will he have of her? A string of almost kisses. The memory of her weight on his lap. A hint of her wet and warm against him just once, like an unfulfilled promise. He’d feel ashamed all the same--but what for? Secret little moments that amounted to nothing.

“ _They danced through the day_ ,” the Squire sings, “ _and into the night, through the snow that swept through the hall. From winter to summer, then winter again. ‘Til the walls did crumble and fall. And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave…_ ”

Never wanted to leave. Doesn’t want to leave. Never wants to leave and yet he keeps leaving her and leaving her and leaving her and he turns around and strides across the floor and spins her around and cups her cheeks and captures her lips with his own.

He has dreamed of this--he has. It’s always soft and gentle and beautiful. In his dreams, he takes his time, mapping out her lips and mouth and every dip and swell of her body. But this is desperate and hurried and almost a little painful for their noses bump and their teeth clash and her hand tugs at his hair while the other claws at his back as if she wants him so badly she’s mad with it and it’s its own kind of beauty. A heady kind that blurs the world until there’s nothing but her. The shuddering breaths she takes, the honey-sweet taste lingering on her lips from the cakes they ate after supper, the tangle of her hair in his hands, the clink of her necklace hitting the floor, the pull of her frantic fingers trying to divest him of his clothes while her clothes are fucking _impossible_ to get into.

“Laces,” she breathes against his lips. “My back, remember?”

Oh, he remembers. He whirls her around. Her hands slap against the wall, the sharp noise of it pulling him out of the haze just enough for him to realize the sounds they make will ring out over Winterfell. He closes the shutters and then he’s back, ripping her laces open until he can sink to his knees and tug the dress with him while she’s stepping out of it impatiently like a woman crushing grapes beneath her feet to make rich, sweet wine. In the heartlight, he can see the outline of her long legs through the shift she wears beneath. _Gods_ , she’s tall. He cups the delicate tendons of her heels and drags his hands up her calves and knees, over the blue ribbons keeping her stockings in place and up her thighs, the fabric of the shift bunching in the crooks of his elbows. There he stops. Waits for her to work the laces at the front of her corset. Once she’s shrugged it off, he keeps pushing the shift up up up until it flutters to the floor and then she’s bare. Pale and slender and shrouded in messy red waves, the blue of the ribbons as bright as summer skies against her skin. 

Grazing his fingers across her back, he brushes her hair aside. And there it is. Her neck, long and graceful. He does rise on tiptoes then and presses a kiss to the hairline at the base of her skull, his eyes fluttering shut. He moves his lips down, sucking gently on her skin, leaving little marks easily hidden by collars. Leaving little marks no one will see but him. Then he kisses the top of her spine and, grasping her hips firmly, works his way down her back. Kisses the dimples at the small of it. Kisses the top of the cleft below. A breathy, shaky noise leaves her and gooseflesh spreads across her skin. He kisses the left cheek, the right cheek too, nips a bit at the supple flesh, growls when she whimpers. Nips her again just to earn himself another whimper. Cupping her inner thighs with the palms of his hands, he nudges her legs farther apart, her stocking feet gliding easily on the flagstones. When he skims his fingers over the hair covering her, he finds it already damp. He can smell her arousal too--and that scent wakes a wish in him so powerful he shoots to his feet so quickly pinpricks of light dance across his field of vision.

He wants to taste her, _needs_ to taste her. _Now._ Can't wait. Fumbles with his own damn clothes. Shucks the doublet. Doesn’t have time for this shit. Steers her to the bed, guides her down until she’s draped diagonally across it, both legs pulled up and bent at the knee, her right heel resting on the edge of the bed. The place he wants to sample is framed by those blue ribbons, all pink and glistening. He runs a hand over his mouth. Drops to his knees. Grabs her hips, yanks her closer, buries his face in the damp curls between her thighs, and breathes her in so deeply he’ll carry her scent with him for the rest of his days. Raising her hips off the mattress, she tells him with her body that she wants this as badly as he does and he slides his hands beneath her bum and, keeping her close, nuzzles himself in between her folds and _tastes_.

Her breath hitches, her whole body stills, waits for another lick. He gives it, coats his tongue with her taste, and her moan is so fucking needy he has to adjust himself in his breeches. He keeps licking and sucking and licking and some part of him remembers he’s supposed to ask her what she likes, what she needs, but her hands are cupping the back his his head and she’s making the most beautiful noises he’s ever heard and she bucks against him with a hissed _yes_ when he slides two fingers into her and he knows it’s good, knows to keep doing just what he’s doing, knows to suck on that swollen bud and fuck her with his fingers until she tenses up and shudders with a keening noise that's even better than the sounds she made before.

Slowly, lightly, he keeps licking her as she floats down from her high until she shies away from his tongue with a lazy smile, her cheeks flushed and her eyes hooded and shining. Shining with lust. She still wants him. She’s not satiated. She wants more. He’s barely registered that thought before she’s sitting up and tugging at the laces of his breeches, letting him spring free. 

“I’m not sure I know,” she whispers, looking up at him, her lips parted and swollen and red from his kisses.

“You don’t have to--”

The rest of his sentence gets strangled in a throaty moan when she opens up wide and takes him into her mouth. At first her teeth graze against him and he flinches. Then she gags. But he guides her with a few murmured encouragements, with a gentle hold on her hair. And then, with one hand firm around his cock and the other cupping his arse, nails buried in his flesh, she sucks and sucks while staring up at him with those blue eyes of hers, cheeks hollowed, lips sliding, sliding, sliding and _fuck_ \--

No. Not like this.

He pulls away; she releases him with a wet noise. He stumbles on the breeches snaring his feet. He kicks them off. His socks too. Tugs his undershirt over his head and tosses it wherever, finds her lying down, legs still in those gorgeous fucking stockings and eagerly spread. He growls and climbs atop her, cock already nudging at her opening, and somewhere inside him, a weak voice whispers that there’s still time to stop. There’s still time to be honorable. But then she reaches down and lines him up and he’s pushing in deep and good and oh-so-willingly while kissing lips that taste of him with lips that taste of her. And there’s nothing gentle about this either. He’s rutting against her like a wild thing, lifting one of her legs over his shoulder to get deeper and fucking her so hard, so fast the chamber fills with the wet slaps of it. But she’s moaning and moving with him and even snaking a hand down between them to pleasure herself and it takes a fucking miracle of an effort to hold back because it’s so good he’s barely aware of anything anymore but the tight hot feel of her, but he does hold back. He holds back until she’s so far into pleasure she loses the rhythm and peaks again--and then, with her pulsing around him, he finally, finally lets himself soar into a high so strong his ears ring and his head almost aches.

With a rush of breath, he collapses atop her. His impossibly beating heart races in his chest and his boneless body refuses to move. So he rests there for a while, in her embrace, in the aftershocks of her pleasure until his head is clear again and his ears stop ringing and he can prop himself up and look at her. At her tousled hair and swollen lips and the red marks low on her throat.

And that’s when the shame seeps into him, invited by that stubborn voice he can’t ever truly block out no matter how hard he tries. The voice telling him he’s not good enough. That he’s _base_. And he was, wasn’t he? It started out well enough, but then lust overtook him and he took her like the base piece of shit he is. Like an animal. He _fucked_ her when she deserved to be treated with gentleness and care and love and--

“You’re already regretting it.” She strokes his hair out of his eyes. “Aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not.”

“You look like it.”

“No, I just…” He sighs. “This is our first time, at least as far as we know, and I wanted it to be beautiful. Not…” He shrugs.

“Desperate?”

“Aye.” He smiles sadly at her. “I’m sorry.”

“I didn't know you were such a romantic." She smiles gently at him. "We were desperate. You _and_ me. Next time will be beautiful.” She wriggles beneath him; he slides out of her, soft and sensitive. “As soon as you’re ready.”

He raises his brows, smiling. "Again?"

She bites her lip, grinning up at him. "If you can handle it."

He lets out a breathy chuckle. "You liked it, then."

Her laugh is the most wonderful thing. “You’re such an idiot. Wasn't it obvious?"

“Yeah, but…” He gives another shrug.

She cups his cheeks. “It breaks my heart. How much you doubt yourself. You have no reason to. I _loved_ it."

She hums contentedly and brings his lips to hers for a long, deep kiss. Now, when lust isn’t clouding his senses, he can feel the ribbons of her stockings tickling his sides. Still kissing her, he reaches behind him and loosens the bows. Then he sits back on his knees and forgets entirely what he was doing for she’s gorgeous and naked and tousled and flushed. Happy. Glowing, really. Because of him. She _did_ enjoy it, wild as it was. He knew it at the time too. Could feel it. Didn’t doubt it at all. Aye, he is an idiot for letting his insecurities whisper nonsense into his ears when everything she does and says is so much louder if only he listens.

“So what will you do?” she asks, lifting herself up on her elbows so she can look at him, her breasts jiggling. “If I turn out to be married to someone else.”

“I’ll kill your husband and marry you myself.”

She laughs and kicks him playfully; he catches her foot, puts it on his shoulder, and starts rolling down her stocking.

“I’m serious. What will you do?”

“Suffer?” He throws ribbon and stocking on the floor, and pats his other shoulder. She lays her foot there and he starts removing that stocking too. “But if we’re not married,” he says. “To each other or anyone else. If you’re a widow or I’m a widower. Or if I’ve made some shit vow about celibacy, I’ll marry you.”

“Even if you’re the bastard?”

He stares at his fingers rolling the second stocking neatly. “Would that bother you?”

“If you’re the bastard, that would make either your sister or your brother the heir. You could ask them to legitimize you if you swore you wouldn’t try to steal their crown. Then we could marry. And if not… We’ll run away. We’ll steal some gold and sail to Essos. We can open a little shop. A tailoring shop. I’ll make dresses for the rich and you’ll take care of the finances.” She moves her leg to his waist instead, hooks her foot around his back, and tugs him back to her. “We’ll find a way.”

“Aye." He throws the ribbon and rolled up stocking on the floor. "We’ll find a way.”

When he moves closer on his knees, the featherbed rocks beneath them and her breasts jiggle again. Her nipples are pink and flat and pretty. He falls forward, catches himself on his hands, and takes one into his mouth, trying out different things to see what she likes. A gentle bite, aye, but nothing sharper than that. Blowing on it makes her look at him as if he’s the village idiot. Sucking is best. It makes her writhe beneath him, makes her moan, makes her tug at his hair in a way that smarts deliciously all the way down to his cock. He moves his mouth to her other breast, plays that nipple hard too, and rolls over on his side so he can touch her down there at the same time, down where she’s wet and slippery with her slick and his seed.

“Let me wash first,” she murmurs.

He sits back and watches her. Her long, lean body golden in the dying light of the hearth and the few flickering candles in the room. Right. He gets up too and builds a better fire that will last through the rest of the night, blows out all candles except the ones on her nightstand, cleans himself quickly, and returns to her already in bed. For a moment, they just sit there side by side, their backs against the wooden headboard, and smiles at one another. Almost shyly. Despite what they just did, despite the taste of her still lingering on his tongue. Anticipation and nerves whip his heart into a frenzy. She’s as beautiful as a bride on her wedding night--and her smile so loving it does feel like it. A wedding night. Their wedding night, for he’s the lucky bastard who’s won her heart. And he feels as dizzy as a green boy when she straddles his lap and circles her arms around his neck.

“I think you’re wrong,” she murmurs. “About us. The way I feel about you… It’s not possible to feel what I feel this quickly. It’s too deep. We _are_ married. I know we are. Can’t you feel it?”

Part of him can, aye. That deep-seated bond nothing can erase, not even something spiriting away all of their memories. Maybe she’s right. Maybe all his doubts have been nothing but nasty whispers by the insecure voice inside him.

When she kisses him sweetly, languidly, he allows himself to believe it. He allows himself to believe that she is his wife. And, while he doesn’t spend hours worshiping her body this time either, while they just sit there and kiss and kiss and kiss until their bodies catch up and grow hot again and she sinks down on him and starts to move, it _is_ beautiful.

It's not just lust. Not a desperate race toward a carnal high. Not a quick burn after days of playing with fire. It’s a gentle and slow passion. A long embrace full of love. It's love. He loves her. Gods, he loves her. And she loves him. And a name falls from his lips, then, in a susurrus song. Over and over and over, in time with their motions, until they both fall into bliss together.

Afterwards, they stay like that for a while, faces pressed together, catching their breaths.

Then he feels something wet and hot against his cheeks. Tears. Hers, he realizes. She’s crying. He kisses her tears away and asks, “Are you all right?” and she laughs, wetly.

“It’s so strange,” she whispers. “My chest feels… It feels as if I’ve carried this tight and heavy knot inside me for so long it's become a part of me and I didn’t even realize you shouldn’t feel that way. But now…” She releases a tremulous breath. “I feel light. I feel _so_ light.”

With another wet laugh, she returns her lips to his and, entwined, they slide down between the sheets, beneath the furs. Entwined, they murmur confessions he knows he’ll never regret, not even if they wake up tomorrow and learn that he’s the bastard or she’s another man’s wife. Entwined, they drift off to sleep. And that night he dreams she is his wife for true. He dreams of him and her and their children in this castle called Winterfell where they're happy for the rest of their lives.

* * *

Something warm is molded around her body. Something hard presses into her bum. Something pleasantly heavy is draped over her torso. She blinks her eyes open. The room is lit by emberglow and gray morning light squeezing in between the slats of the shutters. A hand rests on the sheet next to hers. A large hand. Jon’s hand. Sansa lays her own hand over his and laces their fingers together, eyes drifting closed again, her consciousness hovering between awake and asleep.

She hears him coming to as well, a change in his breathing, his chest expanding with a deep breath and pressing into her back. His beard rasps against her shoulder. Warm lips follow. A kiss to the crook of her neck, to her throat, to her jaw. They move as one: her rolling over on her back; him moving atop her, supported on his forearms against the mattress.

His kisses taste like morning breath. She doesn’t care. They’re still good, so good, and she’s already wet and ready for the hardness prodding at her, has dreamed of him all night. Dreams of him and her at Winterfell forever. Sharing a bed and a life. She shifts her hips until he’s right and then he's pushing inside, slowly, slowly--

A knock shakes the door, yanking her out of the blissfully half-asleep state she was in. Her eyes fly open. Jon hovers over her. He’s all eyes. Wide brown eyes. Terrified eyes. Fully awake and aware eyes set in a face so pale, so panicked, she fears he’ll faint. The knocking rumbles like distant thunder for she can’t take in much more than the fact that Jon is inside her. Jon is inside her--and he looks paler than death. Gently, she touches his cheek and whispers his name and his face contorts and his body shudders and a grunt leaves his lips and oh _._

 _Oh_.

If mortified were a painting, it would look like his face.

Another knock. Urgent.

Jon pulls out of her, soft and sticky. “I didn’t mean to--”

The door handle turns and she realizes with a cold surge through her sleep-warm body that none of them remembered to lock the door last night. Jon falls off the bed. The door opens.

Sansa exhales her relief.

Arya. It’s just Arya.

She doesn’t look surprised at all. 

“Daenerys just woke up,” Arya says, sliding inside, and watches impassively as Jon scrambles after his discarded clothing. “She’s already asking for you. You have to hurry. No one’s in this hallway. Yet.”

He jumps into his breeches, undershirt slung over his shoulder, and struggles with his socks. Mutters a curse under his breath. Shoves his socks into his pockets and struggles with his boots instead. It’s almost funny. Sansa feels giggles bubbling in her chest.

Arya’s expression remains entirely neutral.

“Make sure your bed looks slept in,” she says, tossing him the doublet and the cloak.

Jon’s at the door now, buried beneath a pile of clothes. When his eyes dart to Sansa, he looks so pained it could kill her. Then he leaves and the hysterical giggle bubbles out of her like a big wet sob.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think the devil possessed me yesterday, because I wrote this in three hours. Granted, it was a 3.7k mess once I was done and I edited into 5k today. But still! That's not usually how well things flow for me lol. Especially not with smut. Anyway, here's to it happening again and I wish any writers out there a good writing flow too!


	11. The Morning After

A sob fills the quiet chamber. Sansa rolls over on her side and burrows into the furs, clutching them to her face and chest. Arya’s throat tightens. She looks so small, her big sister. Curled up like a ball beneath the furs. Crying softly into her pillow. But Arya crying too won’t help anyone; she swallows the feeling away and sits down on the edge of the bed, calm and unaffected. 

When the mattress dips and the bed creaks, Sansa stills. Arya can hear her sniffling, though, can hear her drawing a shuddering breath, inhaling and exhaling stale air that smells like sex.

Arya pretends it doesn’t. 

“Do you want me to leave?” she asks.

A small whimpered _no_ leaves the heap of furs. It sounds almost like a question: _do_ you _want to leave?_ Arya does and she doesn’t. Her knee might bounce with the need to bolt and her skin crawls whenever she thinks of what she glimpsed when she opened the door, but she stays in the awkwardness her sister needs her help to bear. It’s the least she can do.

Faintly, she hears Jon moving about on the other side of the wall separating his chamber from Sansa’s chamber. Frantically messing his bed, Arya guesses. Spreading his clothes over the room. Building a fire to make it seem as if he stayed there all night. Washing the scent of another woman off his body before he has to be in the same chamber as the one who took him as a bed warmer.

Or so the whispers went before the collective memory loss.

Jon has never confirmed anything. And during the day and night and day that passed before the dead came and died for good, Arya never saw them do anything at all. The one night slept in his own bed, in his own chamber, he slept alone. But she didn’t watch him every moment of those two days. And he has his secrets. She can tell from the tense set of his shoulders, the smiles that don’t reach his eyes, and the way he controls almost every emotion and reaction. He’s so boarded up it’s only a matter of time before the walls he’s so carefully built around himself will crack and release it all in a burst, like water from a broken dam.

“Is it everyone?” Sansa says in a small voice. “Or just us. Who remember.”

“Everyone. Bran woke up. He’s holding a meeting now. First thing. He’ll explain what happened.”

Still clutching the furs to her chest, Sansa sits. Arya has never seen her like this, all frazzled and tousled and, well, looking as if she’s spent a whole night shagging her brains out. There are small red marks on her neck. Love bites. She’s red around her lips too (and Arya remembers the feel of Gendry’s stubble against her own lips. How it rasped and burned).

Sansa looks well and properly fucked. And she is. There’s no other way to put it. 

“You better wear a high collar today,” Arya says.

Sansa pulls up the furs to her chin. “I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t know.”

“No but…” She turns her gaze to Arya without actually making proper eye contact. “I think there’s something wrong with me.” A tear slides down her cheek. Another follows when she blinks. “I’m broken.”

“Don’t say that. We all thought…” Arya stares at her lap. “It’s not your fault.”

_It’s mine._

“Do you hate me?”

“No, I could never hate you.” Arya shrugs. “No more than usual, anyway.”

She offers a grin and expects one in return. A grin between sisters who’ve grown and matured and are long past childhood hurts, frustrations, and misunderstandings manifesting as hate. A grin between sisters who might still tease and bicker but will walk through fire to protect one another. A grin between sisters who love one another dearly. But Sansa doesn’t grin. She only looks at her with dull, red-rimmed eyes, and Arya knows what she’s about to say before she’s even opened her mouth.

She knows because it’s the only thing she’s been able to think about while running through the castle: if Sansa and Jon were _that_ drawn to one another when their memories were gone, what does that say about the relationship they had before?

“I didn’t know,” Sansa says, voice almost child-like, and Arya makes herself look at her and bear the confession too. “I swear I didn’t know. But everything makes sense now. Things that confused me before. The way I missed him when he was gone. The way I couldn’t wait to hold him in my arms again. The way I--” Her grip on the furs tightens until her knuckles pale and bitterness seeps into her voice. “And now he’s going back to her. The woman he wants. The woman he loves. The woman he’s not related to.”

“I don’t think he loves her.”

Sansa leans forward, hope burning bright in her eyes and words streaming out of her in a desperate rush: ”Has he said anything? He won’t speak to me. Not really. I asked him, the day he came back, and he said he did what he believed was right. What kind of answer is that? It felt as if he were hiding something and I thought he was too ashamed to admit he lost his head. But then _she_ said something, the next day. Something that made me think that maybe he’s manipulating her and--”

“ _Sansa_.” Arya shakes her head; her sister bows her own, cheeks flushed pink. Arya scoots a little closer and softens her voice. “Even if that’s true, you can’t be with him. You know that, don’t you? You can’t _ever_ be with him. You’re not Cersei.”

Sansa closes her eyes. “I know. I _know_. But it--”

Knees pulled up to her chest, she hides her face in her hands and cries in earnest, her shoulders quaking with quiet sobs.

Arya doesn’t know what to do. 

She would’ve, once. As a child she knew how to comfort. But somewhere between stepping off a boat in Braavos and boarding another to return home, sincerity was beaten out of her. Bonding became a liability. Lies were all that mattered. Lies and games and faces and violence. Now her hands feel heavy in her lap and she ends up just staring at her weeping sister.

At least she knows not to share her thoughts. The guilt lying heavy and black in her heart.

She encouraged it. She should’ve told them to wait, but she encouraged it. They were so sweet. So in love. And she might not have remembered them, but she knew she loved them. She knew she loved them more than anything.

_I just wanted you to be happy._

Arya’s eyes sting. She turns them to the shuttered window as if she could see the view outside of a light snowfall hazily lit by a cloud-draped sun. Sansa doesn’t need to carry that too. If she knew how her little sister blamed herself, she’d push her own hurt aside and comfort. _She_ remembers how. She would hug Arya--and that’s what Arya should do, she supposes. But they were at it, weren’t they? Jon and Sansa. When Arya came in.

Did they know and just didn’t care? No, they wouldn’t. Were they too groggy from sleep and acted on instinct and impulse and desire? Did they finish? Her stomach turns at that thought, at the thought of hugging Sansa with Jon’s seed still-- _Shut up._

Does it matter, though? After all the blood and gore she’s waded through, why would this deter her from hugging her own damn sister when she’s crying her heart out?

If Sansa _wants_ a hug. Maybe she’d find it equally awkward. Arya glances at her and finds herself rescued from her dilemma: Sansa is pulling herself back together, wiping her cheeks with a sniffle, and sitting up straight.

“I don’t have time for this,” she says. “We need fresh linen. Will you help me make the bed before some maid remembers her duties?”

As Arya passes Jon’s chamber on her way to the linen closet, she listens at the door. It’s quiet. She imagines him sitting there, all alone in his misery, and almost knocks on his door to pull him out of it. But changing the linen in Sansa’s bed is more important.

When Arya returns, Sansa has ripped the linen from the bed, a sheet twisted into a knot burning in the fireplace, gathered yesterday’s clothes that were strewn over the room into a bundle on a chair, and opened the shutters to air out the room. It smells of soap now. She must've melted snow from the ledge outside to get water to clean herself before donning the shift, stockings, and a corset she's now wearing. And, while Arya takes care of the bed, Sansa steps into a modest brown dress (collar high enough). Then she turns around, showing Arya the undone laces of her back, and Arya gets to work without a word.

“I’ll do your hair too,” she says, grabbing a brush off a dresser. "That'll give us an excuse for why you'll be a bit late to the meeting. You shouldn't arrive when Jon does."

Arya drags a chair to the blade of daylight on the floor and gestures at her sister to sit. She half expects Sansa to protest. To say she can braid her own hair, to question Arya's skills, to at the very least quirk an eyebrow, unconvinced. But she just sinks down on the chair, pale and sapped of strength, and Arya starts brushing the knots out of the crow's nest.

"Some part of Bran could hear us," she says. "He wasn’t truly unconscious. He just couldn’t communicate because he was healing and ‘melting the snow.’” She pauses for a reaction, for a question, but Sansa remains quiet. Arya's stomach twists, but she keeps brushing, keeps talking. "Don't really know what that means yet but... Anyway, he knew he had to return to consciousness to make sure Jon and you-- That you wouldn’t do what you did. It took him longer than expected. He said time is different when he’s in that state. That's all I was told before I ran straight here and... “

She shrugs. Too late, wasn’t she

Still, Sansa says nothing. The only indication that she's listened is the smallest nod of her head.

In the silence, Arya hears a knock on Jon’s door. It opens. A voice. Male. Sansa cocks her head too to listen and Arya loosens her grip on her hair. An answer, also male. The door closes. Two sets of footsteps down the hallway. With a sigh, Sansa turns back to stare at her own door while Arya braids thin plaits to weave into a bun.

Grey Worm, would be her guess, sent to Jon’s chamber under the guise of informing him of the meeting when his true purpose was to snoop and make sure Jon was alone. Arya didn’t hear much, as she was in a hurry. Only a maid telling another maid the Dragon Queen was awake and asking for the King. Demanding answers. Hopefully, she'll be more focused on that--and on how her own advisers favored Jon over her--than on Jon and Sansa. At least for a little while.

“It was only once." Sansa's voice is so low Arya has to strain to hear it. “Only one night. We didn’t… It wasn’t the whole time.”

“I know.”

“I wish it had been,” Sansa says with all the defiance of a sullen child. “I wish it had been the whole time.”

Arya doesn’t know what to say to that. She only knows the invitation to berate and judge and punish is better left ignored and keeps braiding and braiding and braiding while trying very hard not to ask Sansa whether they were careful lest Sansa starts crying again.

Why would they have been, though. They believed they were married. Didn’t they? And now, after healing all those injured soldiers, Wolkan’s stores are nearly depleted. Snow covers most of Westeros. For how long would Arya have to ride to get Sansa moontea? How far south? After all the wars the past few years, what villages are even left? Where would she go? How long would it take for her to return?

She’d be too late for that too, wouldn’t she.

Maybe Jon can't. What, with him dying and all.

(It's wrong of her to wish it, to rob him of that joy with someone else, but right in that moment she does. Right in that moment she prays he can't.)

“Did Bran finish healing?” Sansa asks.

“I don’t know.” Arya secures the last plait. “I hope so.”

“Me too. We should leave. Are you done?”

Arya steps back to survey her work. The braided bun is chunkier than Sansa usually wears it. It looks almost a bit matronly. But it’ll have to do.

“Yeah,” she says. “You think you can face everyone?”

“I don’t have a choice.” Sansa rises to her feet and even though she’s yet to put on her boots, she’s never looked taller. “They don’t know what happened and they never will. As far as I’m concerned, they’re the ones who need to feel ashamed for thinking Jon and I were married. It’s a preposterous idea and we will laugh at it.”

“Not quite that harsh,” Arya says. “You’re too haughty. And don’t hold your chin that high. And remember your hands.”

Sansa’s gaze drops to her hands. She’s not rubbing her thumb against her palm like she often does, but they are clasped, the thumb nestled into the hollow of the opposite hand. Ready to soothe. Sansa relaxes her hands and clasps them behind her back. Forces her lips into a small smile. Keeps her chin just high enough for her to look confident rather than masking insecurities.

“Perfect,” Arya says. “You’ll do great.”

Sansa’s chin wobbles. But she’s quick at recovering. She _is_ good at this, Arya’s big sister. She'll be fine. She will.

* * *

The tables still stand in a square, but there are more people in here now than what had become usual during the days after the battle. Tormund, Davos, Bran, Wolkan, and Arya, of course. But also the Hound, who Sansa remembers vaguely from the past week as someone who did all his work without complaints but kept to himself, and Gendry. The two men stand together in a dark corner as if they were so curious to learn what was going on they finally used their connections to attend a meeting but still don't feel as if they belong.

Bran, who looks wan and hollow-eyed and thin, has been wheeled into the center. Tormund and Davos are both squeezed in on opposite sides of Sam's table. Wolkan stands behind Jon. And, as if a week is all it takes to form a habit, the rest have taken their usual seats. All except Tyrion, who know dutifully sits next to Daenerys. 

There is a little jolt in Sansa’s chest when she realizes she must sit next to Jon as usual, but she doesn’t let it show, just sits down without preamble and nods and smiles at Jon in greeting as if he didn’t peak inside her a half hour ago, and this is the first they’ve seen of each other since yesterday. Thankfully, he has the mental wherewithal to acknowledge her with a nod and something resembling a smile himself, even if she can see how pale he is beneath his beard.

She knows what that beard feels like against the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. She knows how it carried the scent of her afterwards, how she could still smell it, still taste it, even after he washed and she sat on his lap and made love to him and he... He...

Sansa frowns.

He... _what?_

There’s something there. Another memory--only one as faint fog that disperses whenever she tries grasping it. Something that--

“Shall we begin?”

Bran's cool voice yanks her back. Her heart beats too fast. Her cheeks prickle with heat. Can people tell? She forces herself to breathe calmly (not too deep, not too slow, perfect) and takes in the room with a discreet glance. Every single person there is glum-faced. Those not looking at Bran stare into nothing while waiting for his explanation. They look more haggard than yesterday too. Sam has been crying. Tormund as well. Even Daenerys looks puffy around the eyes and that’s when grief hits Sansa like the flat of a sword against her back. She falls forward and grabs the tabletop to steady herself while unwanted images rush to the forefront of her mind: Theon lying on his back in the godswood, a broken spear in his side. Blood running from the corner of his mouth. Pale eyes staring up at a dawn he never lived to see. He's gone. Gone, when he’d only just begun to heal. Gone, when he still had a whole life ahead of him full of laughter and joy and good experiences for once. Gone, before he knew they won. Gone, when she _loved_ him. For half a heartbeat, Sansa can’t breathe. But then she sees Jon reacting, sees his hand moving towards hers beneath the table as if comforting her, touching her, have become a habit too--and she sees him snatching back his hand as well and pretending to scratch himself on the knee before his fingers have as much as grazed her.

It's oddly helpful.

Another glance around the room tells her no one noticed; they're interested in nothing but Bran.

And so should she be.

_Focus._

“The Night King wanted the world’s memories,” he says. “He wanted the powers I have so he could go back in time to the day of his making and change it. But tampering with time is a dangerous thing. He would've unraveled history. I could not allow that to happen.”

Bran folds up one of his sleeves and reveals the ice-burn on his forearm.

“He touched me, once. Ever since I’ve borne his mark. And through that mark, he could weaken me enough to steal my memories, my powers.” He rolls the sleeve back down and rests his hands in his lap, one on top of the other. “I’d watched the battle through the eyes of a raven. I’d seen Arya running toward the godswood. I would be saved, but the Night King was getting too close, too quickly. And if he touched me, you’d all forget what you were doing. You’d forget who the Night King was and Arya would forget why she was running. She’d forget everything she needed to know to kill the Night King and all would be lost. I had to protect our memories. _Hide_ them. Not erase them. They were still there, so you’d sense the general shape of them. Like a lump beneath a thick blanket of snow. You don’t know whether it’s a stump or a rock. But you know it’s not a tree or a pebble. And you know not to step on it.”

Tyrion hums. “So that’s why we felt as if we knew each other. Well, some of us, at least.”

“Yes. Bonds needed to be intact or there wouldn’t have been any trust. I left Arya with a strong need to protect me, so she’d still kill the Night King--and so she'd make sure to keep me safe afterwards. Had I already died before she could plunge the dagger into his heart, the snow would’ve melted eventually, the more you learned about one another and yourselves. Things would start creeping back to you. It would be a slow process, though, like winter thawing into spring. And if I lived and could melt the snow myself, it still would take a little while. So either way, I needed you all to get along so that nothing unfortunate would happen. Relationships needed to be at least somewhat intact. The deeper the bond, the more likely you were to know what you were to one another. It’s why Jon and Sansa never believed they were married, despite Tyrion’s theories.”

All heads snap to them. To her and Jon, where they sit, in the chairs of the lady and the wolf sword man. Side by side. Like husband and wife, the tapestry of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully behind them like an echo.

This is what Arya prepared her for. Jon won't take the reins. Sansa knows him well enough to know that. This is her domain. 

_You'll do great._

She thinks about her posture, her chin, her hands, and draws a breath and speaks.

“No, we never believed it,” she says in a voice that's true and clear. “We accepted the roles as temporary king and queen as it seemed needed to keep everything running smoothly. But in _private_ ”--she pretends to fight a smile and laces her voice with only a touch of arrogance, just enough for her to sound a little condescending over the fact that the others entertained such a preposterous idea when they ought to have known better--”Jon and I laughed at the notion. We did feel some sort of family bond, that’s true, and we both felt at home here at Winterfell. But we believed the man in the tapestry was his older brother and that I was that brother’s wife. That made more sense to us, didn't it?”

She turns to Jon so they can laugh at the silliness together, so they can sell the lie together, but he’s slow to react. Too slow. A knot tightens in her stomach. Everyone will know. They’ll see the strain in his half-hearted smile, the lack of focus in his eyes. They'll notice that he's not quite present. So, with her smile still in place, she looks for some inspiration to take the attention off Jon and right there, opposite her, sits Tyrion.

And so Sansa says the first thing that pops into her head.

"But we must forgive Tyrion Lannister for his silly little theory. Considering his own family situation, it’s not so strange he got confused.”

A cheap joke. A cruel joke. But jokes at the expense of Lannisters rarely fail. Someone snorts. Someone else muffles a giggle behind closed lips. And then laughter erupts in the chamber. The too-loud laughter of people grateful to laugh away the tension, as if they all, ever since they woke this morning, had wondered with growing dread what happened whenever the Wolf King and Wolf Queen retired for the night. Tyrion bears being the butt of the joke with the dignity of a man with a lifetime's practice. Ser Jaime, though, clenches his jaw and his fist while staring a hole in the table, and she has to bend her lips into a satisfied smirk to hide how she and Jaime Lannister are too similar for comfort.

The smirk only wavers when she notices Brienne’s wounded look and remembers ser Lady Knight and ser Lion. Their fighting. Their pondering the nature of their relationship, wondering whether they were husband and wife rather than brother and sister when they were neither.

Perhaps Sansa and Jon weren’t the only ones who acted foolishly during the week of memory loss.

“Yes," Daenerys says, lifting her plump little chin, "we all remember how the Warden of the North protested. He didn’t seem that keen on being married to the pretty lady with the red hair--and small wonder.” She shakes her head at Tyrion. “But still you insisted. All because of a tapestry of lady Sansa’s late mother and father. Or were you only trying to look clever?”

Tyrion's easy smile falters. He bows his head to his queen, but she doesn't see it. She's looking straight at Sansa, lips stretched wide, and Sansa wishes she could pluck her own memories from her mind--memories of tending to Jon’s wounds and holding him close and kissing his hair and sitting on his lap and taking him inside her--and shove them all into that woman’s face. It’s an ugly wish, an ugly feeling growing within her chest. She hated that woman before for stealing the North after everything the North had suffered for its independence, but now? Oh, _now_ \--

And then it deflates, that ugly feeling, and gives way for a hopelessness that lies heavy in her gut like a sack of wet linen. Sansa might be able to find a way to get their independence back; she most certainly will try. But Jon can’t be hers. He can’t ever be hers. She can't fight for him. Not even if it's to that awful woman he'll wander when he feels as lost and in need of comfort as Sansa does herself.

A lump forms in her throat. Tears form in her eyes. She tries pushing it back, she really tries, but holding back tears never came easily to her and two wrestle themselves free and drop from her lashes.

Jon looks at her, worried.

He still doesn’t touch her.

(This time, it only makes it harder.)

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, vision now blurred with tears, and says something for which she’ll hate herself for the rest of her life: “I'd forgotten. But then Her Grace mentioned my parents and it all came back to me. What we lost during the battle. All the people we lost. Theon--” She brings a trembling hand to her chest and looks at Jon. “Dolorous Edd. Lyanna Mormont.” It takes all the strength she has left to smile kindly at Daenerys through her tears. “Ser Jorah Mormont. All the people we loved. All still lying out there in the snow, alone and cold… I can't bear the thought of it. It’s time we say goodbye.”

“Aye,” Jon says, voice rough. “We’ve kept them from finding peace for long enough.”

A murmur of agreement rolls through the chamber. People nod solemnly. Even Daenerys looks drawn with grief.

Sansa breathes out her relief.

It’s selfish of her. Theon deserves better than to be used like this. And she does cry over him. Once the pyres are done and they’re all gathered out there and she fastens the Stark pin to his chest, she cries so hard for him she knows she’ll need something for the headache that will follow. She cries over the others as well. Over little Lyanna who died too young. Over Edd who always was so kind to her. Over all the familiar faces on those pyres--and the unfamiliar faces too, the mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters. And the children. So many children.

But Sansa cries over Jon as well. She does. When she leaves the pyres and sees him looking at her with so much empathy her knees feel weak and she wishes she could collapse in his arms and let him hold her and comfort her, she cries for she knows he’ll never touch her again.

They forged a _we_ , once. By late night talks in front of campfires and hearths, by taking back Winterfell together, by arguing over ruling, by sharing silences and meals and memories and worries, by being the only ones left. They forged a _we_ she foolishly believed was unbreakable--and now it's shattered into a million pieces so small she knows they can't even be salvaged and melted down and forged into something new.

It's over. Winterfell will never be the same. Her family will never be the same. All because she didn't want to be good anymore and didn't care about the consequences for, when her memories were stolen, she forgot that she'd stopped believing in love. She forgot that life isn't a song. She forgot that she'd accepted her lot: she would grow old alone and find some sort of happiness in a life that wasn't the girlhood dream that stubbornly lived in her heart for far too long before she managed to squash it, granted, but that at the very least was safe.

And she was fine! She was. She was _fine_. And then she got a taste of her girlhood dream, of everything she's always wanted, and learned that the cynical woman she'd become was wrong. And so she cries for herself too.

She cries for the little girl whose dreams came true for barely a moment before reality crashed back in and snatched it away.

She cries for she knows, now, that she’ll mourn the loss of her wolf sword man for the rest of her life.


	12. Guilt, Shame, And Pity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s lovely to see you guys speculating. I’m glad this idea is sparking so many ideas in your imagination and I agree that this could’ve made for a really interesting canon divergence fic. I’m also worried because this is not a canon divergence fic lol. This fic is more or less canon compliant (even if I interpret characters the way D&D didn’t intend for us to interpret them but they have no rights so) and follows s8. I don’t want all of you to be disappointed or feel bamboozled when you, too late, realize this was not what you believed you signed up for.
> 
> So, let me try again: if s8 was a crusty and dry old sponge cake, I’m not dumping it in the bin and baking something new. I’m not even putting it in a blender and making cake pops out of it. I’m slicing it into layers, adding some angsty filling between all those layers, sprinkling some memory loss berries over said filling for extra flavor and texture, topping it with a brand new layer to (hopefully) make it a little more satisfying, and then smearing on a thick layer of happily ever after frosting. If that sounds like something you’re in the mood for, I hope you stick around for a big fat slice. And if not, I hope you find a cake more suited to your taste. Happy snacking!
> 
>  **trigger warning** : brief thoughts of wanting to die that's mostly just an expression of hopelessness and being overwhelmed, not a genuine wish to die.

Bran doesn’t talk much about his travels. Arya can’t claim she’s an open book either, but during the two months Jon was away, when she and Bran and Sansa spent their evenings in Sansa’s chamber enjoying the warmth of the hearth--and of being together after all this time--Arya would sometimes flip the book open and read them an excerpt or two. Sansa did as well, a bit more frequently. With Bran, however, it was a rare thing. And he always seemed as if part of him lingered in another time and, when he spoke, it was from such a great distance everything that made him Bran had faded before the sound of his voice reached them.

Now, though, there’s something new there, radiating from him. New for this him. 

He looks worried.

He hasn’t said a word since Arya escorted him back to his chambers after the funeral. Something told her, though, that if only she waited, one of those rare moments of opening up would occur--and waited she has, wrapped in the furs on his bed, knee bouncing again.

She wants to spy on Daenerys, who (even though she didn’t lay one finger on them and only delivered a scathing look) dragged her advisers by the scruff of their necks to her chamber for a private meeting. And she’d like to talk to Jon, who’s in his office with Sansa, Wolkan, and Sam penning ravens to all the holdfasts in the North and to the Vale, and a longer detailing of the war against the dead to the Citadel.

She’s watched Jon all day and learned very little. She’s too close to him to read him well, she gathers. “A girl will see what Arya Stark will not,” Jaqen told her once and she thought about Syrio Forel’s story about the fat yellow alley cat. Your wants and wishes and preconceived notions color your perception. That was the lesson. No One is unbiased--but it’s too difficult being No One around Jon.

She wants to talk about the feast too. They’re still hosting it tonight. Sansa’s suggestion. Everything's prepared, after all, and a feast after a funeral seemed appropriate. Everyone nodded at that. Looking forward to the distraction, no doubt, and to the joy of it too after the casualties of war slammed them in the face this morning. But Arya worries about what will happen once everyone gets a bit of ale in them--

“I fear I have changed the course of history.”

Arya’s bouncing knee stops. Bran is staring out the open window. Says he likes the cold. The light snowfall stopped hours ago; now the world lies still and quiet and pale, the sky only a touch darker than the snowy ground. The flock of ravens finally swooping toward Winterfell looks like a dark smudge against all that white. Bran has called them home, she knows; they both watch the birds returning as he continues.

“Perhaps it will right itself. I hope it will.”

“Can’t you see?” Arya asks. “Can’t you go forward?”

“I was still learning. The past is written, the ink dry. Accessing it was like wandering the library aisles, searching for the right title. As long as I knew where to look, I’d find what I needed. But the future… There are fixed points in time, as far as I can tell, but everything around them keeps changing. Humans are destined to very little; they make their own choices, create their own fates. It makes the future difficult to navigate. Right now I have neither the strength nor focus to do it. It can’t even access the past anymore, unless I’ve visited that memory before, and I can’t access the future at all. But I think--” He sighs, the burden of his role weighing down his slumped shoulders. “I shouldn’t speak to you about this.”

“You had no choice, Bran. You had to do what you did. And you saved us. All of us.”

He meets her eyes, then. “You did. My plan only worked so long as you did what you were meant to do. I know it was the only way but…” He inhales deeply and exhales slowly, eyes losing their focus. “I’m tired, Arya. I’d like to rest.”

She slides off the bed and arranges the furs over it. “Will your powers grow strong again?”

“I’m not sure I want them to,” he says, quietly, touching the Night King’s mark on his forearm. “But, yes,” he says, voice stronger now. “I think they will. With time.”

* * *

War-torn walls have given Arya access to new parts of the roof, like a shadowed patch on the ledge outside Daenerys’ window. With the extra protection of a dead man’s face and some work clothes she nicked when the laundress wasn’t looking, she sits there and listens at the noises sneaking through the cracks of the closed shutters.

So far, nothing interesting’s been said. She’s looking mostly for groveling, this Dragon Queen, and groveling she is given by a contrite-sounding Tyrion and Varys, who both stroke her ego and explain how, when they didn’t remember all the great deeds she’s done, they assumed their place had to be with the Wolf King because they both truly felt Westerosi at heart and she was an Essosi queen and so on and so forth.

It’s a tedious listen.

In the distance, Drogon and the other one soar together, the latter still a little weak. Inside the chamber, Tyrion reminds his queen of her true goal and how close it is now that the battle against the Night King is over. There’s a desperate tinge to his voice, as if he wants all the attention off himself and onto the next battle. 

This is pointless. Stifling a sigh, Arya leaves her hiding spot, changes back to herself, and heads to Jon’s office.

He and Sansa sit on opposite sides of a table, quills against parchment, while Sam sits between them, sealing their scrolls with wax and the Stark sigil, and rambling about tonight’s feast. Wolkan, who’s at the desk penning what looks to be a longer letter to the Citadel, looks up every so often and nods and smiles and comments. Jon and Sansa, however, are too focused on their work to participate.

At least, that’s what they want you to think, but Arya can tell how careful they are not to touch, dipping their quills in separate vats of ink, blotting their parchment with separate blotting papers, grabbing a new strip of parchment from separate piles whenever they start a new scroll.

And they never look at each other. Everything about their movements is just too studied. But, she has to admit, hadn’t she known what happened, Arya Stark would not have noticed this. Just as Sam and Wolkan don’t seem to notice. The only two signs that something’s seriously wrong are Sansa’s furtive glance at Jon before she leaves with Sam and Wolkan to send the ravens, and the courier to the Citadel, and the way Jon’s eyes glaze over the moment their backs are turned to him.

Only Arya sees that, though. And only she’s there to see, the moment the door closes and they’re alone, how Jon collapses with a heavy sigh, his elbows on the table and his head in his hands.

She listens at the door until she’s certain the hallway is clear before she approaches him.

“Have you talked yet?” she asks, quietly. "You and Sansa."

He shakes his head.

“Will you?”

“I don’t know. I…” He rubs his eyes, his pale, ink-stained hands a stark contrast against the red of his cheeks. “I don’t know, Arya.”

“What are you going to do now, then?”

“I don’t know.”

She chews on her next question for a beat before spitting it out. “Were you two careful?”

“Aye, no one knows. And no one will. I’ll protect her honor. I promise.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

She can hear him swallow and the silence that follows is answer enough.

“So she could get pregnant, then?”

His hands fall from his face and land on the desk with a bang. The chair flies into the wall behind him when he shoots to his feet and stalks over to the window, his back an angry canvas of brown leather meant to ward her off. But this is too important. He can huff and puff all he likes; she’s not leaving without answers, without a plan.

“I can ride south,” she says. “I can try to get moontea. Got to be some place to get it? I’ll ask Wolkan too. Say it’s for me."

Jon’s shoulders rise when he breathes in deeply, the sound of it trembling in the quiet of the room.

“Jon,” she says, walking closer. “Are you all right?”

“No, I’m not bloody all right. What kind of question is that.”

“Well, I don’t know! You’re not saying anything.”

“I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what--” Another trembling breath. “I don’t want to talk to you about this. It’s between her and me.”

“When will you talk to her?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

“Yeah, it is. This is my family too. What you do concerns me.”

“No. Not this. Just leave it.”

“But I can help. Father always said the pack should--”

“What are you doing?” he says, whirling around and glaring at her with eyes hard as dragonglass. “Why are you meddling? Haven’t you done enough?” Shoulders raised like an angry cat, he moves closer until he looms over her. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe it would’ve been a better idea to _not_ encourage us?”

Arya blinks, shrinking in his shadow. “I’m sorry. I thought--”

“How could you not know!”

“Keep your voice down.”

“Why the fuck did you encourage us? How could you not know, Arya? How could you not know she was your own bleeding sister?”

She stomps her foot and scowls up at him. “How could _I_ not know?”

“It’s not the same! She’s not my sister and she never was and--” He sucks in a breath and pulls back, eyes averted. Breathes out, shoulders rounded and face endlessly tired. “We were never close. We’ve never seen each other as siblings. Only family. It’s not the same. But _you_ ”--he points at her, _looks_ at her, looks right into her with eyes so wounded she has to force herself to meet them--”you should’ve known.”

Then he squeezes himself past her and storms out, the doorway a gaping hole between them.

Arya’s eyes burn, her throat feels thick. She folds her arms over her chest and turns her back to the open door and blinks and blinks and blinks until the tears are gone.

(But no matter how much she blinks, the guilt only grows.)

* * *

He’s always had steady hands. With hands like that, Maester Luwin once told him, he could become a maester himself or even an alchemist creating wildfire. 

Today Jon’s hands shake. The vines stretching across the naked window of the broken tower paint shadows on his skin that dance from the shaking. It makes him seasick. When he closes his eyes, he sees a sloppy version of his usually neat handwriting as if writing scroll after scroll after scroll with the same message burned the ink into his eyelids. Wolkan offered to write them for him. Usually, he would’ve accepted, but Jon only shook his head and muttered curses when he kept the quill on parchment for so long ink leaked onto the page or broke another nib.

He could feel Sansa’s eyes on him, then. But he never looked up to see whether or not he imagined it.

Then Arya came, standing there at the wall and staring at them as if she were bored and looking for entertainment. Oh, he knows that’s not true. But he felt like a freak being paraded around by a traveling troupe. Take a look at the bastard, only one copper star! Aye, he ran away from home because he fell for his sister only to fuck a woman who ended up being his aunt and then he came home and lost his memories and fucked his sister anyway and now everything’s a fucking mess he has no idea how to even begin cleaning up. For a silver stag, you can get a lock of his pretty hair and gift it to someone you don't like for bad luck!

He presses his fingers against the aching spot above his eye. 

What’s the right thing to do-- No. What’s the _clever_ thing to do? He can’t afford to listen to his feelings, but right now they’re all he hears while his thoughts are bouncing around his head too quickly for him to discern more than snippets.

Two times, they-- No. Shame burns through him. Three times. _Three._

He pulls up his knees to his chest, rests his arms on his knees, and his forehead on his arms. 

What if Sansa does fall pregnant? Everyone would figure it out and he’d have to reveal his parentage for the sake of her and the child. He’d have to marry her. Would their people accept it?

Would Daenerys?

What would she do?

She wouldn’t hurt a woman carrying a child of her own blood. She’s not a monster. She might not care about Tyrion’s family or Jon’s family, but she cares about her own. She named her dragons after her brothers, for fuck’s sake. She wanted Jaime’s head for killing her father. She’s just… selfish. Entitled. Impatient. Violent. And the moment she knew Jon was her nephew, she saw him as a threat.

_Fuck._

Jon gets up. Paces the room as best he can around all the debris. Shakes his shaking hands. Pulls the cloak tight around himself and sits back down on a fallen beam.

A cloak for a king. That’s what Sansa said when she gifted it to him. That it would make him look more majestic than the old thing she cobbled together at Castle Black. She hung it on his shoulders herself, even fastened the straps before stepping back and taking him in. “There," she said with a proud smile and he felt seven feet tall. "The King in the North.”

Aye, what a fine king he turned out to be. If only they'd known... She would've been crowned, not him. She _should've_ been. He never deserved it and he knew it too, but he accepted it like the selfish idiot he is and now he's walking around in a cloak he doesn't deserve either, but the other cloak… He didn’t want to look like the man everyone believed was married to the pretty lady with the red hair. So instead he wears the cloak ripped by a dragon and mended by said pretty lady. The lady he wanted for a wife.

You can barely see the tear, so fine are Sansa’s stitches. Even with her memories gone, some part of her remembered her many lessons. Some part of her remembered _him_ \--and that part…

What does it matter? They can’t be together. And, even if they could, she deserves so much more than a man who might not be a bastard in name but certainly acts like one, all base and depraved and greedy. He’s a man without honor who brings nothing but shame to the House of the man who raised him.

It’s too much. Gods, he’s tired.

Why couldn’t he have died in the battle?

He should’ve just _died_. Then Dany would’ve taken her dragons south and left his family alone.

He needs someone to tell him what to do. Why can’t just someone tell him what to do?

Footsteps echo up the winding stairs. Jon freezes, his heart lurching in his chest. No one ever comes here. Not since they were children. Unless Arya… No. Not after how he treated her, as if it’s her fault he followed Sansa into her chamber. He _chose_ to pull Sansa onto his lap. He _chose_ to hug her by the window. He _chose_ to turn around and kiss her when he should’ve left. He _chose_ to take her again and again even though he knew better. Consequences be damned.

He should’ve left. He should’ve left her.

He’s good at leaving the people he loves.

And she’d be better off without him.

And she’s the one stepping out from the shadows into the broken daylight spilling onto the floor. 

She gasps when she sees him, one hand pressed to her chest as if he gave her a fright. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t think anyone… I wanted to be alone. I’m sorry.”

She moves as if to turn around and he feels his body moving on its own, one unsteady hand stretched out to stop her. To make her stay. He hears his own voice, small like the voice of a little boy hoarse from crying: “Help me. Tell me what to do.”

And Sansa looks at him with so much love pain lances through him. It only gets worse when she lifts her hands too, as if to touch him, as if to comfort him, as if to hold him--and how he would love to be held by someone and actually feel it within instead of separating himself from his own body and letting the husk left behind react to stimulation--and then pulls her hands back and furls them into loose fists. 

She’ll never touch him again.

“It never happened,” she says. “That was not you and me, Jon. That was the lady and the wolf sword man.”

He looks at her, confused.

“It’s what I called--” She blushes, clasps her hands, one thumb rubbing at the other palm. “It’s what _she_ called him. In her head. She had no name for him.”

There’s something in the back of his mind. Another elusive thought or memory darting around like a rabbit too quick for his arrow. But he doesn’t feel like the hunter who misses his mark. He feels like the rabbit. Anxious. Jittery. Skittish. He feels as if, if only he’s still for long enough, the arrows will penetrate him and he’ll _remember_.

He doesn’t want to remember.

“I didn’t happen,” she says and he nods repeatedly, his tense shoulders falling a touch. “Tell yourself that until you believe it. We can’t let anyone know. We can’t behave in a way that…” She falls silent; he chances a glance at her face. Her eyes are closed. When she blinks them open, she keeps her focus on the floor. “I have to take a bath. Before the feast. We’ll enjoy the evening. We’ll have a perfectly pleasant evening.”

He watches her leave, hands clenched hard so he won’t reach for her, and sinks back on his beam once she’s gone.

It didn’t happen. It didn’t. He walked to the door, opened it, walked the six steps to his own door, opened that, got himself ready for the night, slept in his own bed, woke up alone. Got himself ready for a new day. Walked with Grey Worm to the meeting.

Aye, that’s all that happened. 

He stays in the broken tower playing that series of events in his mind's eye on repeat until he’s so cold, he knows the hot water of his own bath will sting his skin. He arrives at the feast so scrubbed clean he’s raw without and numb within. On either side of him sits a woman picking at her food and he doesn’t know how to talk to either so he doesn’t. Arya isn’t there. He looks for her all through supper, but she’s nowhere to be seen. He scared her off, then. Oh, if Father could see him now… He has no right, sitting up here, in front of all these people, in his father’s--in his _uncle’s_ \--old seat.

When Jon thinks back on everything he’s done since leaving home, he can barely count on one hand the things that would’ve made Eddard Stark proud. Had he lived, he would’ve regretted raising Jon as his own. He would’ve disowned him and asked himself why it took him so long to see Jon for what he was. "Not one honorable bone in his body, that one," people would say when they saw Jon. "How could we ever think he was Ned Stark's son?"

At least Daenerys didn’t choose his seat for herself today. A small comfort Jon clings to nonetheless. He'd expected her to. It would separate him from Sansa. But Dany seems lost in her own thoughts tonight. Most do. It takes a lot of wine and ale for people to loosen up. For the feast to feel like a proper northern feast with clamor and laughing and bawdy jokes hollered over the room.

It takes a lot of wine and ale for Jon to loosen up too. But he does. Once the effects of drink wind their way around his bouncing thoughts and hug them so tightly they still at last, he feels the tension running off him, he feels himself relaxing, he feels himself _feel_. And he feels, quite strongly, that Sansa is very beautiful when she smiles. He feels happy when Tormund jokes and teases as if this is just another evening with the three of them. He feels relieved for the Night King is dead and he can finally stop worrying about the bleeding war that’s aged him a few decades at least.

It’s _over_. Daenerys will fly south. Maybe she’ll even let him stay here. She’s made no effort to see him today, as if the memory loss and the lack of a bond between them made her realize she doesn't truly love him. Jon sits up straighter. Aye, _that's_ why she's so quiet. She's finally realized that what she's feeling is just attraction and lust and a hunger for someone who didn't want her. It was the conqueror in her, that's all! And now she's wondering why she sacrificed one dragon, got another hurt, and lost thousands of soldiers for the love of one boring old man when Arya, the Hero of Winterfell, could've stabbed the Night King in her sleep. And now she's trying to figure out a way to end things amicably so she won't end up with a rebellion or even a usurper on her hands.

And in that moment, Jon can't quite remember why he hasn't told Sansa everything already. It's the only sensible thing to do. And Daenerys isn't that bad, is she? She can be reasoned with. They saw her true character the past few days and she wasn't _evil_. She was just looking for a place to belong! And tonight she even toasted to Arya. That was rather nice of her. Perhaps he's made her worse in his head than she truly is. Perhaps he's been unfair. Perhaps he could strike a deal. He’ll stay mum about his parentage if she leaves the North alone.

Aye, that's what he will do--and Sansa will help him. She's good at this. It's time to tell her everything. But she’s not in her seat. She left the table earlier--he remembers that--but now, when he looks out over the great hall, he can’t see her.

Where has she gone? 

* * *

She’d stopped aching at the thought of being alone. It was easy to accept it when she didn’t know what she was missing. But now, when Sansa sees everyone pairing off, the ache returns with such force she can’t stand it anymore. On unsteady feet, cloak forgotten somewhere, she leaves the great hall. Flees, really. Or she would, had her drunken feet not slowed her down. 

She’s had too much wine. Somehow a cup was always in her hand and a serving maid always kept it full and she just kept sipping and sipping and Jon was laughing and talking to her as if nothing had happened and it felt… good. It felt good. And she’s never truly been drunk before, didn’t know her limits, when enough is enough, and she kept drinking and drinking and she slipped up. 

Daenerys saw her. She _saw_ her. And if Daenerys saw her…

At the beginning of the feast, Jaime waved Tyrion over to his table and offered him a plate of wool hat sprinkled with pepper and salt. The awkward silence in the great hall was still prominent enough at that point Sansa heard him clearly. “Seems you were wrong, little brother,” he said. “It’s not the little dove but the Dragon Queen who keeps Ned Stark’s bastard on a lead. Couldn’t find a jester’s hat, though, nor any bells. But this looked tasty enough.” Tyrion shrugged, said he was a man of his word, and grabbed his knife and fork. Jaime grinned at him and then, as if he could feel her watching, he turned to look at Sansa and there was something in his eyes that made anger flare up inside her. One moment she sat in her chair, and the next she stood over the Lannister boys, looking down at them with an expression she must’ve learned from her lady mother for they looked very much like Robb and Theon when they’d been caught doing something they shouldn’t.

“That hat,” she said, “could be warming someone’s head. I can’t believe two grown men would be so childish and wasteful when winter is here.” She paused to give them each a pointed look before letting her icy stare linger on Jaime. “I expect that hat to be brushed clean and returned to where you found it. Ser.”

Once she was back at her table, the boys giggled like naughty children while Brienne shushed them and urged Tyrion to return to his seat. After that, Jaime kept shooting Sansa looks. Not often. But often enough she noticed--until she sipped away her worries and forgot that more people than Jon existed in the great hall. But now, out here in the sobering winter cold, it rushes back with the strength of a spring river overflowing with melted snow and ice.

She should’ve just let it be, but instead she made a big deal out of something that could’ve been forgotten by tomorrow.

Now Jaime knows to watch her.

Does he see himself when he looks at her? Does he see his sister?

Sansa needs her own sister. She needed her at the feast too, but she was lurking elsewhere as usual. Target practicing, perhaps. At least that’s what Sansa hopes as she stumbles toward the training grounds like a cloakless fool in the biting cold. Her breath blooms white with relief when she hears Arya’s voice carried on the light wind. A man’s voice too. Sansa’s wine-soaked mind doesn’t quite register that it could mean Arya wants to be alone until she rounds a corner just as Gendry sinks to his knees and looks up at Arya with stars in his eyes. 

It shouldn’t hurt. That Arya is finding love and happiness. Any other evening, it would not hurt. But all day, it’s felt as if a blade has been poised at Sansa’s heart, waiting for the right moment to cut into her flesh and never letting her forget it. And now a bastard boy turned lord, turned appropriate, turned viable suitor, is proposing to her sister, and that blade is plunged into Sansa’s heart so cruelly she has to muffle a sob with a cold fist.

She whirls around, then, and now she does manage to flee, her skirts flapping around her legs while her mind does its best to shove that blade in deeper by letting the echoes of her own voice play in a never-ending loop in her head.

_The way I feel about you, it’s not possible to feel what I feel this quickly. It’s too deep._

That’s what she told him. And he said… nothing. She didn’t notice it at the time--she just kissed him and he kissed her back and then they were moving as one and she thought no one in the world had ever been happier than she was in that moment and then they slept, entwined and spent and sated--but now it’s all she can think about. 

He said nothing.

She might be alone in this. Jon might love her as family and the wolf sword man might’ve found her beautiful--beautiful enough to confuse all that for love for a wife when everyone around them seemed so intent on casting her in that role. Beautiful enough to want in his bed. But that deep love she felt, one that has grown over a long time, not just a few days, she is alone in that--and the misery she’s seen in his features today has been nothing but guilt and shame and pity.

He knows her heart. He must know.

Her feet feel dipped in lead. The staircase is endless. She drags herself up. Pushes down the sobs threatening to rack her chest. Not until she's alone. She can't cry until she's alone.

She’s almost at their hallway, now. Only one more turn before she can hide in her room and curl up in bed. Alone. But then she hears his voice flowing down the hallway. _Sansa_. Faint as a faded memory, faint as fog. Frowning, she wills her heavy feet to move faster and makes the turn and there, farther ahead, in shadows and torchlight, stands Jon by her door. His forehead is leaning against the wood. His curled fist rests against it too, as if after an unanswered knock.

“Just say something, please,” he says. “Just tell me to go away and I’ll go away.”

“Jon?”

Slowly, he straightens. Looks at her and then the door and then back at her, puzzled. “Oh. I thought… I thought you were in there.”

Heart beating harder, faster, Sansa walks closer, one hand trailing along the wall to steady herself.

“I’ve been talking to the door,” he says and smiles at his feet, adorably abashed. “I feel like an idiot.”

“What did you say?”

“Just…” He gestures vaguely. “I wanted to tell you-- No, I need…”

“Yes?”

It comes out breathy. Almost desperate. She should be ashamed, but she’s not because they’ve stood like this so many evenings before. Just like this. Talking, flirting, pretending he’s not going to come into her chamber even though they both knew he would.

He swallows, glances up and down the hallway, turns back to her. “Not out here.”

She can’t stop herself from smiling. His gaze drops to her lips. She licks them. He still stares. Hope flutters around in her stomach. Maybe he does love her. Maybe he only wants her. She doesn’t care. It’s the oddest, most exhilarating feeling. She doesn’t care. The damage is already done. Why should they behave themselves? Why should they be good? Why can’t this be another thing that never happened?

 _You’ll care tomorrow, when you’re sober_ , her common sense whispers. But her heart whispers, “My chamber?” and so do her lips.

She can feel Jon’s breath against them. He’s so close. Her heart races in a rapid _thud thud thud_ that seems to echo through the castle. She fumbles behind her for the door handle with one hand, runs a finger down his doublet with the other until she reaches his waist, where she hooks her finger behind the laces and tugs. Her heartbeat is so loud now that he frowns and looks at her as if he can hear it too and then he looks to his right and it’s not her heart at all. It’s soles. Soles slapping against the flagstones. Someone’s running toward them--and then Jon’s running. His door opening and closing. And then there’s Arya, appearing only a beat after he disappeared. Newly engaged Arya while Sansa’s doomed to be alone forever for she can never have the man she wants.

The blade in her heart twists and ugliness falls out of her mouth from the pain of it.

“Here to make sure we behave? Don’t you have something better to do than being my septa?”

Arya’s face falls. And then it hardens. “Not everything is about you, Sansa.”

Arya turns around and walks away--and guilt falls over Sansa like a net that pulls her out of the pit of misery she’s dug herself. What kind of sister would she be if she couldn’t even share in Arya’s joy? What kind of horrible, self-absorbed monster would she be?

“I’m sorry,” she says and Arya stops. “Please. Don’t go. I was being an ass.”

Facing her now, Arya folds her arms over her chest. “Yeah, you were.”

“Want to stay up for a bit? Please?"

Sansa opens her door and gestures at Arya to join her. She earns herself a glare, but it’s so similar to the glares Arya would aim at her when they were little, Sansa knows it’s a sullen, _all right fine, but I'm not happy about it_. It’s almost comforting. A grounding familiarity in all this confusion.

They settle down by the hearth, the fire crackling cozily. The maids are back to their duties. Well. The ones who lived. Winterfell’s steward lived too, and he’s assigned Sansa a new handmaiden after Marta died in the battle. But she saw this new girl leaving the great hall with Podrick and another woman and wait a moment. Didn’t he serenade--

“Did you have fun tonight?” Arya asks, removing her belt and laying Needle on the table.

It takes Sansa a beat to understand the question, her mind lingering in the memory of Podrick's singing. She shakes her head to clear it.

"No?" Arya says. "What happened?"

"No, I mean." Sansa shakes her head again. " _Yes_. It was fine. But I would’ve had more fun with you there.”

Arya unlaces her boots and toes them off. “I didn’t want to attend.”

“They were cheering for you.”

“I don’t really care.”

Sansa regards her for a beat; Arya stares at the wall as if naked gray stone was the most interesting thing in the world.

“Did something happen?”

Arya curls up in the chair, legs tucked close to her body. “Gendry proposed to me.”

Sansa opens her mouth to congratulate her, but then she realizes: if Arya had reason to celebrate, she wouldn't be sitting in here with her, staring into the fire.

_Oh._

“How did he take it?” Sansa asks instead, quietly.

Arya shrugs. “Pretty well, I think.”

“Is it… Podrick?”

Arya’s brow wrinkles. “What?”

“Didn’t he serenade you? During the memory loss.”

“Oh.” Arya chuckles. “Yeah. He knew I was bored so he stopped by sometimes to talk. And the window faced the forge so… I might’ve encouraged him a bit.”

“So Gendry would see?” Sansa knits her brow. “I don’t understand. If you love Gendry-- _Do_ you love Gendry?”

“I thought I did. He’s the only boy I’ve ever liked, really. But then we…” Arya looks at her, chin held higher than usual. “We shagged.”

Sansa gapes at her. “Tonight? Is that why he proposed?"

Arya breathes out a laugh. "No. Before the battle. I didn’t want to die not knowing what the fuss was about. So we did it and…” She shrugs again and lowers her feet to the floor, slouching down in her seat. “I still don’t know what the fuss is about.”

“Maybe you weren’t ready?”

“Or maybe he’s bad at it.”

Sansa does a poor job at stifling a laugh and then she hears herself say: “Jon isn’t.” She draws in a sharp breath, cheeks burning with shame. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s all right,” Arya says, but she's wrapped her arms around herself and she doesn’t meet her eyes. “You can talk about it.”

“That wouldn’t bother you?”

“It’s not as if you have anyone else to talk to. Bran, I suppose, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“That’s very kind of you, but we were talking about you and Gendry and whether or not you love him.” She quirks her mouth into a wry smile. “Not everything is about me.”

Arya chews her lip, brow furrowed in thought. Then her eyes move to the wall between Jon and Sansa’s chambers and, for a moment, Sansa thinks Arya hears something. But when she focuses too, she hears nothing but the faint whispers of the wind outside and the cozy noises of the hearth.

“I think I do,” Arya says. “Love him. He still makes me feel all warm inside. But it’s not enough, is it. After we did it, I didn’t feel warm. I felt nothing. It wasn’t how it’s supposed to be. And when he proposed, I felt… I felt like I stepped into a snare and I could feel it tightening around my ankle. I’m not ready to get married. I’m not sure I’ll ever want that. I know it's expected of me, I know Mother and Father would've urged me to say yes, but it's not me. I want other things.” She sits up properly and nods to herself. “Yeah. I love him. I do. But I love _me_ more. But it doesn’t feel great, does it? Breaking someone’s heart even though you love them. He was so happy and I ruined it.”

“You didn’t. If you’d said yes to a life you didn’t truly want, you would've grown to resent him. And that wouldn't have been fair on either of you. You did the right thing in turning him down. Trust me. I know a little about doing what's expected of you. It's not the way to happiness.”

“Yeah, I know.” Arya offers her a too-bright smile. “So about that fuss..."

Blushing, Sansa brushes invisible lint off her dress. “I appreciate it, Arya. I do. But we really don’t need to talk about it. And we shouldn’t. I’m glad you came running. I was about to do something foolish.”

Arya’s eyes move to the wall again before returning to Sansa. 

“What?” Sansa asks. Arya hesitates. “Is she there? Just tell me.”

“All right." Arya leans closer to her. "I didn’t come here just for me. I overheard her speaking Valyrian to one of her guards. She ordered him to stay. Said she wanted to see 'the Warden of the North' alone. That’s why I ran.”

Sansa stands. “I want to leave. If I have to listen to them--”

“They’re just talking.”

"Because that never led to anything."

"Shh."

Arya takes her hand and pulls her with her to the wall, where they press their ears against the warm stone. Sansa closes her eyes and focuses. Strains. And there: two voices muffled by the wall. Jon doesn’t say much and Sansa can’t discern any actual words. But both of them sound upset. And then it becomes very very quiet and her mind is flooded with images of them using their lips for something that makes her stomach turn.

But Arya pushes herself off the wall, then, and sneaks to the door. Listens. Waits. Pushes it open. Peers outside. Closes it again.

“She left,” she says and Sansa collapses on her chair from relief. “I could only see the back of her head, but the back of her head looked pissed.”

“Good,” Sansa says and they both laugh. Sansa clamps a hand over her mouth. “Can he hear us?” she whispers.

“I doubt it. We’ve been talking too quietly.” Arya watches her for a moment, then, “I’ll deny I’ve ever said this. But, for what it’s worth, if it’s between you and her, I’d rather he be with you. Even though it’s disgusting.”

Sansa averts her eyes to hide how tears spring to them. “It’s worth quite a lot,” she mumbles. “But it doesn’t change anything. You said it yourself. We can’t be together.”

“I’m sorry, Sansa.”

She shakes her head. “Jon and I have agreed that it never happened. I think I better start acting like it in private too. Nothing happened. And so I can’t talk about it. Because it never happened.”

"No idea what you're on about," Arya says with a grin.

"Thank you." Sansa gives her a grateful smile. “I think I need to be nicer to her. Or at least more polite. Don’t I?”

“Yeah, but you won't have to do it for long. She'll leave as soon as she can."

“And take Jon with her.” Sansa heaves a sigh. “Maybe she should. Maybe it’s better that way. Do you think she could make him happy? He didn’t seem to like her, during the memory loss, but tonight they looked at each other and I couldn’t see him but I saw her and--” She stops herself, clenching her fists until her nails dig into her palms. “I can’t be with him. It doesn’t matter. Nothing happened. Nothing _happened_.” Sansa gets to her feet, holding onto the backrest for support. “I think I’d like to go to bed now. Thank you for talking to me.”

Arya looks up at her, eyes wide with worry. “I’m staying here tonight.”

“You don’t have to. I’m not going to sneak into his chamber. I’m not quite that dumb.”

“That’s not why I’m staying, you idiot. We’ll sleep top and tail. Like we used to. Remember?” Arya grabs one of Sansa’s pillows and puts it at the foot of the bed. “It’ll be fun.”

“I’m fine. I promise. I need to sleep and sober up. That’s all. You should go to him. He might need someone to talk to.”

“Nah. If he needs to talk, he can talk to Bran. I want to spend time with my sister.”

There is something there in Arya’s voice. It’s just a touch too light, the words coming out just a touch too quickly. She stayed in Jon’s office after Sansa and the others left. Perhaps they argued. But Arya wouldn’t tell her if they did, so Sansa leaves it.

When the room is dark and they’re both in bed, top and tail like when they were little, and they’ve lain silent for so long sleep is nosing at her consciousness and nibbling at her resolve and defenses, Sansa's mind fills with foolish dreams and regrets and Jon after all. It fills with precious memories of something that did happen--it did--and she hears herself whispering, “The wolf sword man wanted to marry me. He said… He said that if our memories returned and we weren’t husband and wife, we would marry. We’d find a way to be together. I was so happy. I was so happy, Arya, but now…” 

The blade in her heart cuts her so deeply she can’t hold back the grief she’s suppressed all evening. When another of Sansa's pathetic sobs slips out, Arya turns at once and pillows her head next to hers, taking her hand in her own and holding on, tightly, while Sansa weeps into her pillow.

She doesn’t remember falling asleep. But during the night, the elusive fog-like memory that evaded her all day solidifies into something tangible, and when she wakes, she opens her eyes with a gasp, grabs it with both hands, and remembers.


	13. The Rabbit & the Arrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger warnings:** Vomiting (hangover); emotional abuse. Dany emotionally abuses Jon in the opening scene of this chapter. And, because I got a question about this on tumblr, there will be at least one more scene with Jon and Dany in an upcoming chapter. I don’t think I’ll need more than that, though. I'll add a warning to that chapter too.

Morning light tickles his eyes. With a grunt, Jon forces them open and blinks and squints to find focus in this blurry world so he can close the bleeding shutters and fall back asleep. But something’s weighing down his bed, trapping him in the furs draped over his body. There’s a shape there, sitting on his bedside. A small and dark shape. With long pale hair.

His stomach lurches, blood rushing in his veins. He’s back on the boat. She’s had him carried there in his sleep again without his permission. Or maybe he never left it. Perhaps this was all a fever dream. A warning to let him know bending the knee will only complicate everything. That he should just return home and tell his family how to kill the Night King. With Bran’s help, a small group could manage it. They’d get Arya to sneak close and stab the Night King in the heart. They’d barely lose any men. And then Cersei could do her best against Daenerys and her armies while the Starks could form a plan on how to take down whoever wins.

For half a heartbeat he feels almost hopeful. But then the familiar clamor of Winterfell’s courtyard penetrates the thick fog curled around his groggy mind. He’s home _._ He closes his eyes with a tired exhale. He’s stuck in the muck of his own making.

“How is your head?” Dany’s voice is sweet like honey. “I imagine it must be pounding. I brought medicine for you.” She has a cup in her hands, steam rising from it. “You were so drunk last night. I thought it best to see you. I had to make sure you hadn’t wandered off and fallen asleep in a bank of snow or some other foolish thing.”

She looks at him with a fond smile. The light stings his eyes now. Instinctively, he lifts his head to look at the unshuttered window and pain strikes him behind the right eye, sharp and bright. He collapses against his pillow and that bright pain dulls into a dark pounding. Groaning, he rubs his temple. 

“What do you remember?” Dany looks down at the cup in her hands. It smells like bark tea. The kind Wolkan brews to cure headaches. Jon smacks his lips, his dry tongue nearly sticking to the roof of his mouth “From last night.”

He shrugs with a slight shake of his head he regrets instantly when pain flairs up. He moans softly. Her fingers tap gently against the cup. It remains in her hands.

“You insisted Sansa needed to know who fathered you. Though I can’t understand why.”

The smile curving Dany’s lips doesn’t look that fond anymore. It looks like an arakh. One that will slice him open unless he finds an explanation when his head feels full of workers trying their best to cobble together the mess within with hammers and nails that bang into his skull.

“I…” He frowns, rubbing his temple harder. Stares at that fucking cup of tea. Licks his lips with a parched tongue. “Her father. She believes… She and Arya believe their father betrayed their mother. I know I can’t clear his name, but his daughters deserve to know the truth. They deserve to know he always was an honorable man. After everything they’ve gone through, they deserve to know men like that exist and that their father was one of them."

“That’s very sweet of you.” Dany turns the cup in her hands; his throat feels lined with sand. “You are a sweet man. Sweet and…” She tilts her head like a bird, peering at him. “A little naïve, sometimes. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“She wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“She would. She would tell the world, Jon. Because Sansa”--Dany lowers her chin and stares into him with knife-sharp eyes--”is in love with you.”

His stomach lurches again, bile rising in his throat. Jon turns over on the other side and scrambles after the chamber pot and heaves up yesterday’s food and drink. A warm hand strokes his back. He shudders, cool sweat dappling his skin. Dany hums and keeps stroking him until his stomach is empty. When he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and lies down again, the cup stands on the nightstand and it feels like a test.

But he’s a good little dog. He knows to wait for permission.

Ignoring the cup, he gives Dany his full attention.

“I take no pleasure in telling you,” she says. “I wasn’t even going to but… Oh, I couldn’t sleep last night after our talk. You refused understand. You refused _listen_. So I had to tell you. I had to make you understand that if she learns the truth…”

Dany gives a delicate shake of her head, eyebrows twisted with agony.

“She’s not," he rasps out. "In love with me. That’s…” He breathes out a chuckle he hopes doesn’t sound as desperate as it feels. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Oh, but Jon.” Dany strokes a wayward lock of hair from his forehead. “She is.”

Memories flicker in his mind’s eye. Memories of Sansa stroking his hair. Sansa smiling gently at him. Sansa telling him he has no reason to feel inadequate. Sansa sitting on his lap and moving with him and loving him and there’s that memory again. An arrow nocked. Aimed at him, the sharp arrowpoint glinting in the winter sun.

Before the arrow is released, the skittish rabbit in him darts off, burrows under a thick blanket of snow, digs itself a little hollow, and hides.

“You’re wrong,” he says. “I’m her brother.”

“So? I’m your aunt.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Are you saying you would’ve turned me down that night in my cabin had you known?”

“You know I would’ve. It’s against the laws of gods and men. One of the greatest sins there is.”

“We’re Targaryens. We’re the exception. It’s not a sin when we do it.”

“Doesn’t make it right,” he whispers, pressing his fingers against the pain throbbing in his head.

“I’m the Queen. I decide what’s right. But… I understand. You’re an honorable man, Jon. Your mind needs time to catch up with your body. Your sister, on the other hand… Mm. Not so honorable, is she. She’s been possessive of you since the day we arrived. And you should’ve seen the way she looked at you last night. She’s not the good and innocent little girl you once knew. The abuse she suffered changed her. You understand that now, don’t you?”

Anger pulses in his veins, each red-hot beat urging him to protect, to defend, to attack. But while the wolf sword man could throw himself into a spat with the Dragon Queen, Jon Snow can’t. He can only turn his wide brown eyes to Dany, soften his gaze, and hope it’ll sway her.

“I used to be all she had. Any sister would be a bit possessive.”

“I am telling you,” Dany says, steel lining her voice. “Sansa loves you. She is _in_ love with you. If she learns you’re her cousin, she’ll want you for her husband and she’ll want her husband to sit on the Iron Throne so she can be queen of it all. So she can take everything that's _mine_.”

“Dany.” He slides his hand into hers; it’s still warm from holding the tea. “She doesn’t want the Seven Kingdoms. As long as she has Winterfell, she’ll be happy. You have nothing to worry about.”

Dany lays her other hand over his, the fond smile creeping back across her face. “You seemed so distraught yesterday. After we got our memories back.”

“It was a lot,” he says, staring at his hand trapped between hers. “To remember.”

“Yes. And _you_ must’ve worried. About us. After everyone believed the Wolf King and the red lady were married.”

“Sansa and I _never_ believed--”

“Shh. Don’t worry, my wolf.” Dany caresses his hand. “I know _you_ didn’t. I saw the way you protested every time someone suggested you were married. You knew, didn’t you? That you belonged to someone else.” Smugness plays in the corners of her mouth. “You tried hiding your attraction to me, but I noticed. Your passion and frustration came out during our arguments. We were just like we used to be, remember? Before you finally bent the knee.”

“I remember.” His voice sounds like the tip of a sword dragged over dry hard ground. He clears his throat and softens his tone. “Aye, I remember.”

“I think she could tell too. That there was something between us. It’s why she tried to help me leave when you did everything you could to make me stay. She wanted to be rid of me. But her tune will change now. You'll see. She'll want to keep me here because that means she'll keep _you_ here. And if she has any reason to believe you could be hers, she will use that time to turn you against me. She won’t stop until I’m gone, Jon. Don’t you see?” Dany leans in closer, holding his hand tightly in hers. “She doesn’t care that it would hurt you. She only cares about herself and what she wants. If you truly cared for you, would she want to hurt the woman you love? Wouldn’t she want you to be happy?”

He lifts one shoulder in a helpless shrug.

“I think you do know.” She sits back, easing her hold on him a little. “It’s just a difficult thing to accept. That someone you love isn’t who you believed they were.” She sighs and turns her gaze to the gray skies outside. “I loved my brother. I loved him and he betrayed me. Sold me to a man who raped me. Tried to hurt me and my unborn child. So I did what I had to do.”

Fear slides down his spine like sliver of ice sneaking under your collar. “Are you asking me to--”

“No, of course not. There’s no need for that. Just don’t tell her the truth. If you do, she’ll want me gone. _Gone_ , Jon. You understand what that means, don’t you?”

"Aye, but... Dany. She wouldn't--"

“I was almost poisoned once. Did you know? When your father was Hand to Robert Baratheon. He'd paid a wine merchant to offer me poisoned wine. He wasn't even on the same continent and still he nearly succeeded in assassinating me. Not that one is much safer in one's own castle. A drop of poison in your wine put there by a servant who values gold more than the person they have to obey. It's the easiest thing in the world. Did you know Varys has spies all over Winterfell? He calls them his little birds for they whisper in his ear and all he has to do in exchange for their secrets is offering them sweets. _That’s_ how easy it is to buy someone. Not that _my_ servants can be bribed. They are loyal to me. But what happens after I take the Red Keep? Hm? When I have a court. Ladies-in-waiting. Handmaidens. Chambermaids… I’m not as naïve as my brother was. I know not everyone wants the Targaryen dynasty restored. I could be poisoned. Or stabbed in the back the way Jaime Lannister stabbed my father…”

She draws in a shuddering little breath, lashes fluttering over her eyes. “When we lost our memories, they wanted you to be king within _hours_. Varys, Tyrion, all of them. Do you honestly believe Sansa didn’t pay attention? She knew Varys before I did. She must know his loyalty is to the realm and not to me. And if Varys would want to see you crowned, Jon..." She aims her tear-filled eyes at him and in that moment she looks like a child, all round cheeks and pouty lips and princess curls, begging for his protection. "If you tell Sansa, you’re signing my death sentence. You will kill me, Jon. Is that what you want? Are you trying to get me killed?”

She keeps looking at him with those wide innocent eyes and all he can think of are little birds and poison and wine in his own castle. In Sansa's castle. Nausea builds in his stomach, waters his mouth. The stench of his sick wafts up from the floor. His cheeks puff up and he rolls over again, splashing bile in with the rest of it.

“It’s an unpleasant topic, I know.” Dany finds his hand the moment he lies back on his pillows. “I take no pleasure in it either.” A tear slides down her cheek, dangling from the soft curve of her jaw. “I’ve never longed for war--only _home_. I’m not here to kill. All I want is to take my throne and usher Westeros into an era of peace and prosperity. As I am destined to do. _All_ of Westeros. East, south, west. North. But, sometimes, violence is necessary. To take back what belongs to you, to liberate people from chains, to protect oneself from one’s enemies…” She looks at her fingers caressing the back of his hand before turning her gaze back to his with a flutter of her lashes. “Don’t make it necessary, Jon.”

She lets go of him, then. “Drink your medicine. I’m holding a meeting in the library to discuss our departure. Your siblings will attend too. And we want you to be alert and thinking clearly, don’t we?”

Gentle smile back on her face, she gives his hair an almost motherly caress and leaves his chamber.

The moment the door closes behind her, he grabs the cup of tea and gulps it down greedily.

It is easy to poison someone, aye, but she still trusts him. She still believes him. If she didn't, he'd already be ashes.

* * *

  
  


When she went to sleep last night, Arya expected a difficult morning where she’d need to pull her sister out of bed, remind her that courtesy is a lady’s armor, and push her to the breakfast table. This morning, though, Sansa's mood is entirely changed. She's a bit pale, granted, and suffering from a headache and nausea, but she sends for Wolkan’s tea and sips it happily while her handmaiden gets her ready for the day.

She even behaves in the meeting Daenerys holds in the library, expressing her concerns without the disrespect her voice always seems to ooze whenever she speaks with the dragon queen. It’s not her Arya has to worry about at all.

It’s Jon.

The man standing in the library is not her brother. He’s not a Stark. Not part of the pack. He’s something that wakes the wolf within her, raises her hackles, and pulls her lip into a snarl.

He’s _other_.

But he’s not supposed to be, so she drags this _other_ to the godswood with the rest of her family to get the bleeding answers they should’ve gotten the day he returned to Winterfell.

Out here, in the diamond-bright snow, beneath the blood-red leaves of the weirwood, he looks like Jon again. He looks like her brother, almost sounds like him too--and that’s when she learns he’s not.

He’s Aegon Targaryen. 

“What?” Arya stares at her little brother who just delivered the news as if he were telling them what's for supper. “He’s what?”

“His name is Aegon Targaryen,” Bran says. “He’s the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. The trueborn son. They married in secret.”

“I don’t understand,” Sansa whispers. She’s wringing her hands, eyes moving between Bran, who meets her gaze calmly, and Jon, who stares at the snowy ground. “He’s our…”

“Our cousin,” Arya says. 

Sansa blinks, lips parting softly, eyes still moving between Bran and Jon until they land on Jon. Linger there. Slowly, he lifts his gaze from the snow and looks at her--and a smile blooms on her face. A smile as bright and rosy and hopeful as the dawning sun. A smile Jon does not return. Sansa’s smile falls. Jon looks away, looks like a boy, a small stupid boy who did something wrong and buckles beneath the shame of it.

A quickly muffled sob tears through the silence. Sansa’s cloak flaps behind her dark like raven wings, snow kicking up with every quick step of her feet as she flees. Jon turns his head and casts a long look after her that could be guilt as well as longing. That could be both. Arya still finds him too hard to read to properly say. And then he sighs, deeply, heavily, and for the first time in her life, Arya wants to hurt him.

He takes one look at her and heaves another sigh. “Don’t start.”

She steps closer to him. “Really? You’re choosing to be that woman’s lapdog over being with Sansa? _Really_?”

“I’ve sworn myself and our armies to her cause and--”

“If you can’t say something real, you needn’t bother.”

“You _just_ defended me!” He points with his whole hand at the place she stood only moments ago. “You _just_ said you respected--”

“Shut up.” Arya takes another step closer, staring up at him. “I don’t care who your father was. You’re still my brother and I love you. I do. But right now, I don’t like you very much.”

Holding his gaze, she pours everything she's feeling into him, unfiltered, until he can't take it anymore and averts his eyes. Then she grabs Bran’s wheelchair handles and pushes her little brother away from the man who’s betrayed their family. Who’s too much of a craven shit too fight for them. Who bends and cowers in the shadow of dragons the wolf pack could’ve taken down long before things got this far.

She’s so angry, so hurt, calm settles over her mind, whetting it sharp as a blade, while her body is brimming with the need to act and fight and hurt until her own hurt fades away. Once she and Bran are safe in his chamber, she locks the door and closes the shutters before dragging a chair to his wheelchair so they can speak quietly.

“The future you saw. The fixed points in time. Was it a good future?”

“I can’t--”

“Just tell me. You don’t have to tell me details. Just, was it _good_? Was it something to fight for?”

“It was good.”

“Has it changed?”

“It's not been two days, Arya. I couldn’t say even if I wanted to.”

“Was she alive?” Arya bounces her knee, raps her fingers against the armrest. “Daenerys. In this good future.” She pauses; Bran says nothing. “No,” she says, shaking her head and leaning against the backrest. “She can’t’ve been. Wouldn’t have been a good future, then, would it.” She bites at her thumbnail as she thinks. “Does Jon love Sansa? Or was it just the Wolf King who loved her. I can’t tell.”

“I can’t read people’s minds."

“But have you seen _anything_?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“I know he doesn’t love _her,_ at least. Not my Jon. He could never love someone who treats our family this way. And if he’s too stubborn to ask for help…” She shoots to her feet. “I’m going south. If I leave now, I’ll arrive before they do. But don’t tell anyone. Not Jon. And not Sansa. She’d try to stop me too. Tell me I’ll get myself killed.”

“She could be right.”

“It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make. Someone has to do something. And Sansa would want to scheme. Scheming takes time. Scheming is unreliable. There’s only one way to stop someone like Daenerys.” Arya pulls her dagger from its sheath, watching the light gleam in the dark steel. “I’ll kill Cersei first and then I’ll wait. Daenerys will never sit on that throne. I’ll make sure of it.” She slides the dagger back in its sheath. “If I live, I’ll get moontea and return--” She sighs. “Sansa wouldn’t take it, would she? Now that we know about Jon.”

“I don’t know.”

“She wouldn’t.” Arya smiles sadly at her little brother before throwing her arms around him and hugging him tightly. “Take care of her for me.”

"I'll try," Bran says and she imagines she sees approval in his eyes.

Packing is a quick thing. She knows to travel light. Growing attached to things is nothing but a crutch. There's only Needle and the dagger Bran gave her, some clothes, some provisions, a purse of coins. A quarter of an hour later, Arya is leaving Winterfell for what could be the last time. She should feel sad, she supposes, leaving the home she only just returned to, but she feels nothing, really. Winterfell never truly felt like home this time around--and it never will feel like home either so long as their enemies live and breathe and ruin everything around them.

Cersei Lannister. The Mountain. Daenerys Targaryen. Three names left.

 _This_ is what she's trained for her whole life. It was never the Night King.

She’s ready.

* * *

Unsullied oversee the northmen marching out through the gates, as if they expect them to desert even though there’s nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. It’s been a little over a week since the battle against the dead. Plenty of the men before Jon wear stitches beneath their armor. Stitches that will fall out on their weeks on the road.

He can feel their eyes on him as he passes. He’s too ashamed to meet them, doesn’t want the weight of countless looks wounded from betrayal added to the shit he’s already carrying.

He feels judgment boring down on him from above too. Sansa. At her balcony. It has to be. He can’t help but throw a glance and nearly jolts when he finds Grey Worm’s cold stare. 

Jon nods at him in greeting; Grey Worm keeps his eyes on him for a beat before watching the marching northmen leave. Missandei, who’s by his side, nods at Jon, though. She even smiles--and her smile is warm and true. 

She’s a good woman. And if a woman as sweet and lovely as her follows Daenerys, then there has to be some good in her too. She’s saved countless people. She’s saved Jon when she could’ve let him and the others perish beyond the Wall. She’s gotten lost in her pursuit for the throne, that’s all. And who wouldn’t be paranoid after having been chased all her life? Once he’s gotten her south, away from Winterfell, eliminated Cersei as a threat, and helped her get her throne, Daenerys will calm. She’ll be too busy ruling to worry about Sansa--and the North will be forgotten like it always is. They’ll be as good as independent. And any dealings between the crown and Sansa can go through him.

As long as he gives Daenerys no reason to doubt him, everything will work out fine.

He was never meant to rule, never meant to marry, never meant to father children. He’s the shield that guards the realms of men. That was always his purpose--and that will be enough.

Determined, Jon nods to himself as he opens the door to the chamber he'll no longer view as his and steps into the murky darkness and--

_Fuck._

She sits on his bed, hands folded in her lap, eyes downcast, hair a dull red in the scant light of the nigh-on dead embers and the little daylight finding its way through the cracks of the shutters. He thinks her eyes follow him as he lifts the lid to the chest standing at the foot of his bed and rummages after his saddlebags, but he does not look. Does not want to know that she's been crying.

“You said we would marry.” Her voice whispers like summer wind through tall green grass. “If we were not wed, we would marry.”

“No, I didn’t.” He pulls out the saddlebags and lays them on his desk, back to her. “That was him. Not me.”

“He was you.”

“No. He was not.” Jon opens the brass buckles and the leather lids. “I would never do what he did.”

“What he was, what he felt, what he did, that came from you.”

“A man is his memories, Sansa. And I didn’t have mine.”

“But you did. They were hidden, that's all. Bran said the bonds--”

“Stop.” Jon sighs, closing his eyes for a moment to gather himself. Then he turns around. “We were children. We didn’t know anything about the world anymore. We were playing a fantasy. A romance from a song. We got caught up in it, aye, and it felt real in that moment, but it doesn't make it real.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“We agreed it never happened.”

“Because I believed we could never be together, but we can.” Sansa leaves the bed, her hands pressed together in front of her, palm to palm. “Jon, we can be together now.”

“No. We can’t.”

“Because you choose her." Sansa's hands fall to her sides. "You didn’t even like her. You couldn’t stand her.”

“ _H_ _e_ didn’t know her.”

“And you do? You’ve known her for a few months, Jon. What do you know of her, really. What her followers tell you? What if she sees you as a rival and _kills_ you?”

“She won’t kill me; she loves me.”

Sansa lifts her head. A tear track gleams on her cheek. “Will you marry her?”

“I don’t know, Sansa,” he mumbles and he sounds so endlessly tired even to his own ears, he moves the saddlebags to his dresser and hides behind his packing.

“You don’t seem happy around her.” Sansa’s skirts rustle as she walks closer to him. “I know what people like her are like. How frightening they can seem. But..." She lowers her voice to a whisper. "She's just a person. She can be dealt with. Has she threatened you? If you're scared someone will overhear us, just give me a sign. Any sign, Jon. I will help you.”

He stares down at his hands clutching an undershirt. They’re shaking again. 

One misstep and Sansa dies. Daenerys would look him in the eye and call it necessary. She’d believe it too. She’d feel justified--and perhaps she would be. He’s bent the knee. She is their ruler and rulers are within their right to kill traitors--and if she realizes he’s been lying to her, he’ll make everyone around him look like a traitor. Bran, Sam, Sansa, Arya--they’d all burn and it would be his fault.

Perhaps, if they were incredibly lucky, Sansa could think of a plan that could save them all. But it’s too great a risk. There are always casualties when people play the game of thrones and Winterfell is full of spies. His way is safer.

He clenches his hands hard before forcing them to relax. Everything will be fine. No one will be executed. Daenerys isn’t unreasonable. She doesn’t kill injudiciously. She kills when she deems it necessary and he will not make it necessary.

He folds the undershirt and tucks it into the saddlebags before turning around. “You have to let me go. It's the wolf sword man you want, not me. He's not real."

“You know that’s not true,” she says, gently, eyes shining with the same kind of love he saw in the pretty lady he wanted for his wife. “I want you.” She inches closer. “I love _you_. I have for a while now.”

He has to look away before he breaks, before he pulls her into his arms, before he kisses her and kisses her and takes her desperately against the wall one last time. Before he tucks her close to himself and never ever lets go.

He thinks about his breathing, how his stomach moves each time he inhales and exhales. Calmly, calmly. Calm.

“I’m sorry,” he says, hoarsely, and looks back at her. “I’m sorry for what I did. It was wrong of me. It never should’ve happened.”

She blinks, lashes dark and wet. “You regret it.”

“No.”

The word fell out of him before he could help himself. It fell out of him because a _yes_ would've been one of the greatest lies he's ever told and she would've seen right through it.

How could he wish away the only pure happiness he’s experienced in his life? How could he wish away that night when the memory of it will nourish him through the bleak times ahead when he’ll stop being Jon Snow and become nothing but a shield?

And still he _has_ to lie. Warp the truth. Twist it into something that won’t give away that, once he walks through the door, he’ll leave his heart behind and let whatever’s left of him ride south to kill the queen who’ll stop at nothing to murder Sansa--and to spend the rest of his life staying the hand of the queen who’ll hurt Sansa the moment she believes it’s justified.

“I don’t regret it,” he murmurs. “For a few hours, in this shit world we live in, there existed two people who were happy in a way I’ve never been. The kind of happy no one can be, because it's not possible to be that innocent. Not when you've lived a life in this world--and I have. And so have you. We're not those people, Sansa. I think you know that. You have to move on now. You will be Wardeness of the North, Lady of Winterfell. You’ll be able to pick any husband you want. You’ll find happiness with him. A family. All those things you dream of. You don't need me for that. You'll be happier without me."

Safer too. Her children will never threaten their great aunt's claim. Her children will never be used as pawns to steal a southern throne because of the drops of dragon blood in their veins. Her children will not be taken from her to be raised by a woman who can’t have children of her own.

Unless Sansa is already pregnant.

He should bring it up. Tell her to get moontea, to send Arya or Brienne south. But he wants a son of his own so badly that if he lets those word leave his lips, he will break and she will know. So he swallows those words down, the gulp of it echoing in the quiet.

She’s walking closer to him, now. Slowly. Gleaming eyes stitched to his. And there are other words on his tongue, then. Familiar words. _Help me. Tell me what to do._ He swallows them down too before she can read them in his eyes.

“Why did you tell me? Why did you give me this hope if you never…” Her voice weakens and his hands twitch with the need to hold her. “Why?”

“Because I didn’t want you to spend the rest of your life thinking you’d slept with your brother. I didn’t want you to think you’re Cersei. You’re not. And I wanted you to know the truth about your father."

“Those are the only reasons?”

“Aye,” he says and a dark voice deep within laughs at him. "I don't want to be Aegon Targaryen. I just want to be me. You can’t tell anyone. You swore a vow."

 _And if she breaks it, you might be free_ , the dark voice whispers _. You’ve already given her a sign. You've given her plenty._

He clenches his jaw, smothering the voice within. It's too dangerous. He grabs a few more items from his wardrobe and shoves them into the saddlebags. "I have to go now. I have sworn myself and our men to her war. I'm not going to break that vow. I trust you won't break yours. She won't kill me, Sansa, but someone else might. To protect her rule."

"Isn't that why you should be here? At home. Where you're _safe_. But you're not coming back, are you. You're not just helping her in her war. You're staying with her. You're choosing her--and I don't understand why. I just want to understand _why_."

_Because the only way I can choose you is by leaving you._

He could tell her. She'd understand. She'd let him go--

No. No, she wouldn't. She'd fight for him. She'd fight for him and lose and burn.

"She's my queen," he says. "And she's yours. It's time you accept that." He fastens the buckles. "Davos is waiting for me.”

Jon shoulders the saddlebags and passes her without looking. Grabs the door handle. Pushes down.

“You called me Sansa.”

The snow he’s hid beneath melts away, leaving him vulnerable for the arrow he’s been evading ever since they woke up that morning. It pierces through his craven rabbit skin and burrows straight into his heart.

He gasps, hand falling away from the handle.

“I didn’t remember it at first," she murmurs. "But this morning, I woke up and I remembered. Then you were so awful at the meeting and I thought I had to be wrong. Perhaps all you did was repeating those letters we found. But it’s not true. You said _Sansa_. I know you did. You said it over and over." She sniffles and draws a tremulous breath, exhaling it in a rush. "Our memories were gone, Jon. You didn't even remember your own name. But when we were so deep in passion you forgot to think and your body took over, your feelings took over, you remembered me and you _loved_ me."

His eyes burn with tears, the door a brown blur before him, and in his throat forms a knot so tight, so hard he thinks he’ll never speak again.

Aye, he loves her. He loved her then and he loves her now, in the way he's loved no one else--and in that he finds the strength he needs to turn around and see her one last time before he leaves. The blue of her eyes, the pink of her lips, the red of her hair, the golden spray of her freckles across her strong nose.

His heart nearly breaks when he finds her backlit by the dying light, her face shrouded in shadow.

It makes it easier, though, doesn’t it? That he doesn’t have to see her pain matching his own. It makes it easier to open his mouth and say,

“Goodbye, Sansa.”

He bows his head to her to show, in the only way he can, that he--

No.

He opens the door and walks away.

He can’t. He can’t love her. Not anymore.

He must stop. He _must_. 

He must stop lying to himself. Daenerys isn’t good. She is selfish and needy and possessive--and for as long as he is loved by her, then any woman he loves is in danger. Any person. Any _being_. Even Ghost. 

He must forget them all. From now on he can love only one--and he has to try. Try to love her, as his aunt, as his queen, as his _anything_ , for he’ll never be allowed to love anyone else ever again.

He has to try--and he cannot fail for gods help him if she doesn’t believe him.

Gods help them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon's thoughts are a reflection of the abusive situation he's in. Daenerys is responsible for her own actions.


	14. The Webs We Weave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding the timeline. As implausible as the show's development of speed travel in s7-8 is, it's also canon and something to which I have to adhere here or things will make even less sense. And, looking at the show, it seems as if it takes less than a day (yes, really) to sail between Dragonstone and White Harbor. It takes an army two weeks to ride between White Harbor and Dragonstone (again, yes, really). So this chapter takes place over two weeks. I'll explain my reasoning in the post chapter notes so we won't have to plow through that here.

Arya is gone. Bran won’t tell him anything. He only looks calmly at Jon and says goodbye in that voice of his that sounds nothing like the little Bran who once climbed the walls of Winterfell and dreamed of becoming a knight.

Moontea, Jon thinks. She’s gone to get moontea. Just in case.

Sansa will drink it, no matter what her heart says. She’s too pragmatic to carry a bastard to term if she can help it. Aye, she’ll deal with the consequences of his careless actions while he’ll have the privilege of never knowing whether or not their union bore fruit. 

Three times, he spilled. Once because of passion; once because of shock; and once because he foolishly allowed himself to believe they were husband and wife. King and Queen. Together, in love, and so alive. Why wouldn’t they want a child?

When he hugs Sam and Gilly goodbye and feels the swell of her belly, Jon’s heart does break. 

He’s so tired of washing blood off his hands. No matter what the songs say, there’s no glory in it. How could the burden of a sword ever compare to the bliss of a newborn son in his arms?

He understands now, what Uncle Benjen tried to tell him once. He understands and he cares and he wants--and yet he has to pay the price. He has to keep fighting, ever a sword and a shield. That is his lot.

Jon plucks the pieces of his heart from his chest and leaves them behind, riding through the gates more a shell than a man. He doesn’t look for Sansa on the balcony. She won’t be there this time, wouldn’t give her enemies the chance to see the pain he’s inflicted on her.

He’s good at that, isn’t he? Disappointing the people he loves the most.

Small wonder Arya left without telling him even though she knew he was leaving too. They could’ve ridden together. For miles and miles and miles down the Kingsroad, sleeping beneath the stars, seeing snow give way to green grass, eating grilled rabbit straight off the skewer...

“Are you all right?” Davos asks.

Jon pushes up the corners of his mouth and nods.

“This war won’t last long.” Davos’ eyes crinkle with a fatherly smile. “Not with those dragons. And once it’s over, you can visit whenever you like. Maybe you can even ride him, the green one. Won’t be a moment, then. You’ll be able to visit so often they’ll get sick of you.”

Far ahead Rhaegal flaps and flaps while his brother soars. He needs rest too; his mother doesn’t care. She’s eager to leave--and became more eager still when she turned out to be right in her assumption that Sansa wanted them to stay longer. For the soldiers’ sake. But Daenerys read something else into it.

She’ll leave soon too. Her armies are packing up their things. The Dothraki are taking down their tents. For an hour Winterfell will be filled with more Essosi men than northerners. Jon tries not to worry about that. Sansa will be safe. There won’t be any poison dropped in her wine and Drogon won’t shower Winterfell in fire before he flies off with his mother on his back.

Winterfell will stand.

There’s a good distance between them now, him and what used to be his home. The place where he left his broken heart. One last look won’t harm anyone. He slows his horse to a stop.

Everything is gray. The stones of Winterfell, the sky above it, the dress she wears. Everything but her red hair that shines fire-bright against the glum sky. She stands on the battlements, in the spot he’s come to think of as theirs, and he can’t tell at all whether she’s facing him. Not at this distance. He’s almost glad for it. He doesn’t lift his hand in a wave.

“Or,” Davos says and there’s something in his voice Jon doesn’t care to examine, “are we returning to Winterfell after the war? For good.” 

“We’re not,” Jon says and turns back in his saddle, motioning for the horse to keep moving, to take what’s left of him south.

He’ll never see Winterfell again.

* * *

When Sansa was Tyrion’s wife they would stroll with Shae through the gardens together. He did most of the talking, often regaling them with stories from his childhood or even his travels. Sometimes he’d talk about a book he liked. She doesn’t remember the title of the book of dragons he had as a child. She didn’t even remember that sunny day in King’s Landing when he talked about it, not until Bran told them the truth about Jon, but now the memory is so strong she can almost feel the warmth of a southern sun on her face. She can almost smell the roses.

He loved dragons as a child, Tyrion--and his greatest wish was to ride one. “Alas,” he said, “it’s incredibly rare for a dragon to accept a rider without Targaryen blood.”

Sansa doesn’t look at Tyrion when he walks back to her on the battlements to learn whom she finds a better choice. She keeps her gaze on the two dragons circling one another, the black one stronger, quicker, and bigger than the injured green one. Between them and Winterfell, on the road leading to the Kingsroad, rides Jon. He’s already so far away and as the distance between them grows, so does her worry. _It’s my turn to protect you_ , she thinks, pressing her thumb hard against her palm under the safety of her cloak. _Please forgive me for what I just did--and what I'll do now._

She relaxes her hands and takes a deep breath, releasing it slowly to loosen the tightness in her throat that has lingered ever since Jon rejected her with one look in the godswood. Once she knows her voice will carry well enough, she makes her first real attempt at weaving a web for her enemies all on her own.

“You must be so jealous of Jon, who got to ride a dragon. I remember the day you told me it was a childhood dream of yours. It was a good day. One of my best in King’s Landing.”

Then she waits. If she lets Tyrion piece it together himself, she will not break any vows.

Jon’s horse stops. He turns in his saddle. She can’t see his face from this distance. She knows better than to wave. All too soon, he starts riding again and there’s an ache deep in her chest, as if her heart leapt out to follow him south, leaving her hollow and cold.

Tyrion stands next to her now, peering through one of the gaps in the parapet. A glance tells her he’s watching Jon too. Jon and the dragons, gaze flitting back and forth. When he stands back with a soft _huh_ , she knows he’s got it.

“Once upon a time,” Tyrion says, “a Stark maiden was abducted by a dragon prince and a year later, that maiden’s famously honorable and certainly married brother returned home to Winterfell with a bastard born in the south. A motherless son he chose to raise beneath his own roof. A boy who grew up to become a dragon rider.” Tyrion chuckles breathily and shakes his head. “How has no one put two and two together until now? Not even Varys… Does Daenerys know?”

“Yes.”

“Why hasn’t she told me…” Tyrion quiets, brow furrowed deeply, and then he tilts up his face to look at her. "Someone better, you said. But he wouldn't be able to challenge her claim as a bastard. You know that, which means he’s not a bastard, is he.”

“He’s not.” And she’s not truly breaking a vow by filling in one measly blank. “There was a secret wedding. My aunt named him Aegon Targaryen.”

Tyrion's mouth drops open. He closes it again, swallowing. "Sansa," he says. “For how long have you known?”

Another question hides behind that one, she knows. One that will pop out the moment she answers and her fraught instincts tells her to tread carefully. To avoid.

“When we lost our memories," she says instead, "you wanted Jon to be king. You wanted to be his Hand. Varys wanted to be on his council--and you could be.”

“As you point out, we had no memories. Which means I didn’t remember he gave away his kingdom because he fell in love with a pretty girl. The realm shouldn’t be ruled by a man whose judgment is so easily clouded by his feelings.”

“Is that what you think happened? Have you so little faith in your own queen you assume she can only make good men kneel by using the weapon between her legs? Have you so little faith in your own queen you believe Jon did the _wrong_ thing in kneeling to her?”

“Now, that’s not what I said.”

Sansa turns herself fully toward him. “I’ve never seen you frightened of anyone except your father--and yet _she_ frightens you. And that frightens me. I have underestimated her, haven't I? What has she done, Tyrion? What is she capable of?"

“Sansa, she is your queen. This is treason.”

“I have not knelt to her and she has yet to take the Iron Throne. Until she’s crowned, she’s queen of nothing.”

Tyrion moves closer, speaking softly, “If you wage war against her, you will lose. You will lose quickly and you will lose painfully.”

“I don’t have a choice. We can’t stand idly by while yet another monster takes the Iron Throne. We need someone _good_.”

“Daenerys _is_ good. Yes, she’s strong-willed and impulsive and sometimes resorts to violence a bit quicker than she should, I won’t deny that, but with the right council by her side she tempers those impulses. And she has a good council.”

Sansa shakes her head at him. “I’ve seen the way she talks to you. She doesn’t respect you--and she doesn’t care who knows it.”

Tyrion swallows, looks away, and then lifts his chin when he turns back to look at her. “Those were exceptions. She was under a lot of stress. That’s not our usual dynamic.”

“When is ruling not stressful?”

He flashes a smile. “In times of peace, I should hope. And we will have it. Once my sister is gone and Daenerys sits on the throne, there will be peace. She might even marry your brother. And then they’ll rule the Seven Kingdoms together. There.” He smiles again. “Jon will be king. Like you wanted.”

“I think you’re the one whose judgment is clouded by your feelings. That woman will never share her power.”

Tyrion looks back out over the snowy North, hands resting on the parapet. Jon and Davos are growing smaller and smaller. The green dragon sinks in the air and lands somewhere in the mountains. The black one swoops down to join him. In the courtyard behind her, the snow gets trampled into slush by countless Unsullied lining up to march away. On the fields below her, the Dothraki are packing their horses. Soon Winterfell will be hers again. Jon and Davos are so small now she only knows they’re there because she watched them shrink, and then they’re gone. Winterfell will be hers, yes--and as achingly empty as her chest.

“You would still lose him, Sansa,” Tyrion says with so much pity the tightness returns to throat. “If he ruled Westeros alone, he would still be in the south while you were here. You still wouldn’t be together.”

“Grown brothers and sisters rarely share a home.” Her voice sounds too choked. She's losing her hold on the web she's weaving. _You can do better than this. Relax. Lower your chin. Exhale._ “Living apart doesn’t mean you lose family.”

Tyrion regards her for so long a moment she has to clasp her hands hard to stop herself from fidgeting. “You love him.”

“Of course I love him. He’s my brother.”

“But he’s not.” Tyrion’s gaze weighs on her like an unwanted touch. “Jaime believes something happened between you and Jon last week.”

Sansa lifts one corner of her mouth. “And you believed him? You really have become gullible."

“He recognizes the signs, he says. How you behave when you have a secret.”

“We did have a secret. I just shared it with you.”

The black dragon rises up against the sky again and seems to hover mid-sky, a blot of ink on parchment.

“Not that kind of secret,” Tyrion says, quietly.

“I was rude to your brother.” She watches the blot of ink bleed onto the page, growing bigger and sharper. “It’s retaliation. Spreading rumors is the only way he can undermine me in my own home.”

“I saw you, the way you looked at Jon that first day. As if he were the most handsome man you’d ever seen. I didn’t base my theory purely on that tapestry.”

“Jon is the most handsome man most people have seen. You should hear what the wildlings say about him. Half of them would sooner steal him than any woman here.”

“We were married once, Sansa. I know you better than you think.” Tyrion’s voice is so kind she could scream. “You fell in love with him when you didn’t remember who he was--and those feelings have lingered. And why wouldn’t they? Feelings don’t just go away.” He turns his eyes back to the approaching dragon. “Not even when you learn you’re related to the person you love.”

The dragon is close enough now they both fall silent and watch Daenerys gliding over Winterfell and overseeing her soldiers filling the road below like a fat dark gray snake. When she passes Sansa and Tyrion, a smug smirk twists her face into something ugly--and then she’s far away again, her mighty dragon shooting through the air with strong beats of his wings.

 _Yes, fly away_ , Sansa thinks. _Fly away and never return._

“You weren’t the only one who fell, were you.”

Tyrion's voice slithers like snow under her collar. She says nothing, keeps her eye on the blot of ink shrinking into a speck.

“He was good at hiding it. I don’t think our queen noticed, but I did. How he looked at you. And he protested a little too much, wouldn’t you say? Whenever I suggested you were married.”

Her heart beats too hard. If he realizes... He could use it. To get in his queen's favor again. Would he? Is he that selfish?

Tyrion’s hand closes around hers and he holds it as if he were a knight aiming to place a kiss to a maiden’s knuckles. But instead of a kiss, he merely lays his other hand over hers while looking up at her with so much empathy her eyes prickle with tears.

“You are beautiful, Sansa. Remarkably beautiful. Kind and clever too. How could he not fall? If something happened between you, two young and beautiful people who thought they were married, neither of you could be blamed. You didn’t know. And if there’s a babe…” He lifts one shoulder in a casual shrug. “Daenerys can’t have children. She will need an heir one day.”

His words land like a punch. Sansa wants to snatch her hand away and hiss at him that she will kill Daenerys with her own hands and him too before she lets them have a child of hers, but she forces herself to stay in this trap he wove from her own web. Forces herself to stay calm before her panic traps her further. Forces her voice to stay cool, even a touch patronizing.

“Without our memories,” she says, “we were our most pure selves. You know my brother. You know what kind of man he is--and you think he would risk dishonoring a lady by laying with her without knowing whether she was his wife?”

“He bedded Daenerys without as much as proposing.”

“That’s different.” _He can’t say no to his queen_. “A king takes lovers. A king can have all the bastards he likes--and Daenerys is more a king than a queen. Jon has not sullied her honor. Nor has he sullied mine.” Sansa holds her head high. “The little I have left.”

It’s bait, of course. An invitation to talk about Ramsay. An opportunity for Tyrion to boast about how he didn’t take his rights on their wedding night, how good a man he is, how he would’ve waited forever for her. How he is _different_.

“You have plenty of honor left,” he says and she eases out a breath so he won’t hear the relief in it. “Some… _kissing_ wouldn’t sully your honor, though,” he continues and her stomach drops, the all too-brief relief replaced with dread. “Sansa. Does Jon know you’re telling me this? Are you hoping to rule with him? Rule the Seven Kingdoms together.” He leans his head to the side, observing her with gentle eyes. “I know I’m not your husband anymore, but I still care for you. I still want to offer my protection, but I can’t protect you unless I know the truth. Sansa, please let me help you.”

There is something puppy-like about Tyrion. Not a well-loved puppy, though, but an oft-kicked one. One whose eyes are sometimes wounded, sometimes carefully trusting and grateful for the scraps one offers, all seemingly designed to wear down one’s defenses. _Look at little old harmless me_ , his eyes say. _Give me your trust, your affection, and I’ll be ever so grateful. I’ll love you and protect you forever._

There’s some truth to it, she thinks. It’s why he’s still tailing after the horrible woman who pinned a Hand brooch to his chest. It’s why he still nurses a smidge of fondness for Sansa. But he is not a puppy right now. He’s a bloodhound and he won’t let up until he’s gotten to sink his teeth into _something_. So she must give him something. Something good enough, juicy enough to satisfy without drawing blood. Jon's blood. She can't sacrifice Jon. Sansa slides her hand out from Tyrion’s hold and clasps hers before her. The dread in her stomach blooms like a black rose full of thorns pricking her from within. She must sacrifice herself.

She picks up the broken ends of her poorly woven web and starts mending it.

“Do you know why Littlefinger sold me to the Boltons? He wanted to save me. He had it planned out so well. First Ramsay would treat me badly--but not too badly, since I was the one supposed to give him an heir. A little rape, a slap or two, even a beating, what’s any of that in the grand scheme of things? I got more than that, of course. I was a prisoner in my own home. Locked in my chamber and raped and beaten every day for months.”

Tyrion bows his head, eyes on the ground; she doesn’t take hers off him.

“Littlefinger pretended to be contrite,” she says. “He did. Convincingly too. But I knew he didn’t care, not really. I knew he was upset because, after all that scheming, he was not the one to save me. He was not my knight in shining armor. He won neither my heart nor my hand. I saved myself. With the help of Theon, I escaped. With the help of Brienne and Podrick, I got to Castle Black. And with the help of Jon and the wildlings and the northerners and the Knights of the Vale, I took back Winterfell.” She moves a step closer to Tyrion, her shadow falling over him. “Why have you not asked me about him? Haven’t you wondered where he is now?”

“I assumed he was off scheming somewhere, as is his way. He might be in King’s Landing for all I know, whispering into Cersei’s ear whatever you, my lady, want her to hear.”

“He’s at the Fingers.”

“Oh?” Tyrion bends his lips into a smile. “Visiting home?”

“He’s rotting.”

Blanching, Tyrion steps out of her shadow. She follows him.

“I sent his body there, to his family tower, after I had him executed for his crimes against my family and the realm.”

Tyrion is trapped between her and the wall, now, and looks up at her with slitted eyes. “Why are you telling me this, Sansa?”

She sighs, brushes snow off one of the gaps in the parapet, closes her cloak around her body, and sits. It’s a snug fit, but she does fit and if she slouches a touch too, she and Tyrion are of a height.

“You were always kind to me. I thought you were the best Lannister--the only good one. The only truly clever one. And I loved you for it.”

Tyrion’s eyes widen, his back straightening.

Sansa pretends to busy herself with shaking snow off the lengths of her cloak. “I was the one who told Jon to go to Dragonstone, because I trusted you. I knew you to be a good man.” She shakes her head, sadly. “It was a mistake, wasn’t it? You helped that woman keep my brother prisoner for weeks. You helped her steal his crown. And now you’re helping her take the Iron Throne when you _know_ she’s not what Westeros needs. A strong-willed, impulsive woman who resorts to violence easily when she has _dragons_? Tyrion. You know better than that. I know you do. You haven’t lost your wits. And”--she flutters her lashes, eyes downcast--”you’ve certainly not lost your perceptiveness.”

She keeps her eyes on the trampled ground and waits until she can see the toes of his boots as he inches closer. Then she takes a deep breath and thinks of Jon, of the pain she could read in his eyes, hear in his voice, when he told her goodbye.

When she speaks, her voice wavers perfectly. “There’s no point denying it any longer. You know me too well. Jon and I were never close as children. The bond Bran spoke of, we don’t have it. There was nothing stopping me from falling in love with the Wolf King--and I did. It’s true. I fell for him. But Jon…?”

She allows her eyes to water.

“The reason why he protested so passionately was because he knew all along his heart belonged to someone else. My feelings were never reciprocated.” A couple of tears spill over. She lets them glitter on her cheeks. Tyrion’s boots come closer. “He loves her,” Sansa whispers. “I wish he didn’t, but he does. He doesn’t know I’m talking to you. He would hate me for it. He loves her so much he can’t see what she is. But _you_ can.” She looks up at Tyrion with tear-filled eyes. “Can’t you? You’re too clever to be like Jon. You’re too good to be like Littlefinger, too caring to see other people hurt for your gain. Please”--she reaches out for him and Tyrion’s all too eager to take her hands, sympathy drawing his eyebrows together--”I’m scared.”

“I won’t let her hurt you, Sansa.”

“Not for me.” She holds Tyrion’s hands more tightly. “For the realm. For Jon. And for you. As long as you support her, your days are numbered. Westeros won’t accept Aerys’ daughter on the throne. You know how easily a king can be assassinated. A queen is no different--and when she goes, so do you. And so--” She draws in a shuddering breath, one hand pressed to her chest. “And so does Jon. Jon won’t listen to me anymore, but you might. You’re a good man, Tyrion. She might not believe in you, but I do. I believe in you. The man I married was _good_. And you’re the only one who can stop her. The only one who can save us all from her.”

“Sansa,” he says, head giving a rueful shake. “She’s not so bad as you think she is. It’s your jealousy speaking.”

“No, it’s not,” she says, smiling sadly through her tears. “You know it’s not. Please. Speak to Varys. Tell him about Jon. Ask for his counsel. Please, Tyrion. I don’t want to lose you--either of you. You and Jon are the only two men in the whole world who give me hope that you're not all awful.” With a quivering breath, she moves to her feet. “I know you'll do the right thing,” she whispers and leaves the battlements, flees this sticky trap she still feels clinging to her own skin rather than his.

She has to hide in her office for a long moment before her racing heart slows.

When she returns to the courtyard, the last of the Unsullied are filtering through the gates and Varys and Tyrion are stepping into a carriage. Grey Worm is there too, his horse ready at the gates, but he doesn’t mount, approaching her instead.

“Lady Stark.” He bows. “When our memories came back, Missandei told me you and Tyrion saved her in the crypts. Thank you.” He doesn’t smile, but there’s a hint of warmth in his eyes she’s never seen before. “I am in your debt.”

“We did what anyone would’ve done.”

His eyes linger on her for a breath. “Thank you for caring for my men as well. If you ever find my missing brothers, please send a raven to King’s Landing.”

“I will.”

“Goodbye, Lady Stark.”

He gives another bow and mounts his horse, following his men out the gates without looking back.

Tyrion is hanging out the open window of the carriage, ostensibly waiting to say goodbye to her. With a smile, she walks up to him and holds out her gloved hand for him to take.

“I hope we meet again,” she says, squeezing it with feeling. “Under more pleasant circumstances. Be careful in the south.”

“My lady.”

This time, Tyrion does bring her hand to his lips and kisses her knuckles. She makes her smile grow bright and warm, and stays out there to wave them off--and he stays leaned out the window, watching her until the carriage is through the gates, his eyes shining with worry for her. With fondness. Maybe even love, in his own way.

A pang of guilt hits her. She doesn’t like it, the lying, the scheming. But he is her enemy and, until he decides to do what’s right, he’s an enemy of the realm too. She can never afford to forget that. All she can do now is hope his self preservation will win out and make him see reason. It will. She nods to herself. He’d do anything to survive--even betray the queen he loves.

Sansa walks to the keep on steady legs and with a conviction in her heart that beats strong and true for barely a moment before it falters. Jaime Lannister is watching her from the balcony and all her secrets feel as if they're laid in a box of glass.

Throughout that day and the next, anxiety burns through her stomach at random moments. She’ll do paperwork or speak with Maester Wolkan or visit Bran or take strolls with Brienne--and the memory of her conversation with Tyrion slams into her chest and forces the air from her lungs. At night thoughts eat away at her peace; the only reason she catches any sleep at all is Ghost curling up next to her and laying a calming head on her shoulder. Food tastes like nothing; she forces herself to chew and swallow her paltry ration. Meetings can’t hold her attention like they used to. And whenever she feels Jaime Lannister’s eyes on her, she thinks he can read her every thought, her every feeling, and it keeps her so on edge she jumps at any sudden noise, big or small.

_We’re the same._

That’s what his looks tell her. She wants to grab him by the neck and toss him outside, but for as long as he stays at Winterfell, Tyrion will protect it.

Then Ghost leaves. He and Tormund and all the wildlings. Sansa’s bed is as empty and cold as her chest. She needs someone to hold. She needs a familiar scent in her lungs. She needs Jon.

Her tired mind lets her body do what it wishes. Clad in dressing gown and nightrail, she leaves her own chamber for his. 

* * *

Lady Sansa did not show up for breakfast. Brienne surveys her lady’s empty chamber with a frown. The bed looks slept in, but the sheets are cold. Her dressing gown isn’t where it usually hangs, but her boots are placed neatly by the door and her cloak hangs in the wardrobe.

Brienne hums, sweeping her gaze over the chamber one last time.

“I know where she is,” Jaime whispers in her ear, even though the hallway is empty. “She’s in Jon’s chamber. In his bed, I’d wager.”

“Why would she be in there?”

“Come on, Brienne. You must’ve noticed. She acts like a woman whose husband has gone to war. It’s not a sister’s love she feels for him. Trust me.” He doesn’t meet her eyes, then. “I know these things.”

Brienne draws herself up, tall and strong. “I don’t care for what you’re suggesting, ser. If I catch you spreading any vile rumors about Lady Stark, I’ll throw you out of Winterfell myself.”

“You wouldn’t do that to the man who made you peak twice last night--and who'll do it again tonight, if you're lucky."

He says it with such a charming grin she wants to grab him by his collar and kiss that grin off his infuriating mouth, but she has more self control than that. Instead she looms over him with a scowl.

“Try me," she says.

Jaime mimics locking his mouth and tucks the invisible key into the invisible breast pocket of his armor before holding up his hands like a prisoner and backing away from her with that charming grin still on his face. Glaring at him, she waits until he’s gone before gingerly pushing Jon’s door open.

It’s dark in there. No fire has burned in the hearth tonight. But she hears the soft breathing of someone sleeping and, once her eyes have adjusted to the lack of light, Brienne’s heart clenches.

Lady Sansa lies in Jon’s bed, wrapped up in the cloak she sewed him at Castle Black, the one he wore when he was the Wolf King, clutching one of his pillows to her chest, her nose buried in it.

When Brienne wakes her, lady Sansa says nothing. She offers no explanations and Brienne doesn’t ask for them. Their day unfolds as it usually does, only now Brienne watches her more carefully. She still doesn't know what it is Jaime's seeing, but she does notice the looks Lady Sansa exchange with him. She notices how careful her lady becomes around him with everything she says and everything she does. How she stiffens almost imperceptibly whenever he opens his mouth, as if part of her expects him to share with the world that lady Stark loves her brother in a most inappropriate fashion. How it wears her down until she’s drawn and pale, almost sallow.

When the news comes of Rhaegal’s demise and Missandei’s capture, Brienne’s not surprised to hear the glee in Sansa’s voice when she makes it clear she believes Cersei won’t live long after having provoked the Dragon Queen so. She’s not surprised when she sees relief in her lady’s expression the following morning when she realizes Jaime is gone. And she’s not surprised when Sansa quickly hides her relief and offers Brienne a few days to herself with real empathy in her voice for in her heart, no matter her own feelings, Lady Sansa is kind and generous.

“I have other guards,” she says. “Take your time, Brienne.”

“I’d rather not, my lady.” Brienne holds her head high. (She knows her eyes show the telltale signs of crying all night, all red and puffy as they are.) “My duty is to protect you. With my lady’s sister and brother gone, and with Ghost gone too, that duty is more important than ever.”

“It’s your choice. If you change your mind, let me know.”

Brienne does not. She can’t lock herself into her chamber and wallow in her misery. She should’ve known better than to give her heart and her maidenhead to a man who loved another. A man whose bastard grew in another woman’s womb. It was only a matter of time. He never would’ve stayed with her, not when his sister and unborn child were in danger. This pain she brought on herself. Lady Stark should not suffer for her mistake. So she works. She protects Lady Stark, escorting her around the castle grounds, standing behind her during meetings, and sending too forward men steely looks with her hand on the hilt of her sword.

She’s there when Sansa reads her ravens and answers them (there’s been an increase in them lately and Brienne can't help but wonder about that, but she is not Sansa’s advisor only her shield; had trouble been afoot, Lady Sansa would’ve told her). She stands at the door when Lady Sansa and Gilly knit and sew together--and almost never looks at Gilly’s stomach nor touches it when the baby’s kicking even though Gilly has invited her to do so, like she has Lady Sansa. Brienne doesn’t feel a strange twinge in her own body, a sort of ache, as the two women chatter on about the babe and what to name it if it turns out to be a girl while knitting the tiniest little garments in the world. Brienne has never entertained the idea of carrying Jaime’s children. She’s almost forty years old, for goodness sake. She outgrew the silly dream of a kind husband and darling children decades ago. Her duty is to protect and protect she does.

She also makes sure to always be the one who wakes Lady Sansa in the morning, just in case her bed will be empty again. But day after day passes and, even if the lady seems distracted and worried every now and then, Lady Sansa is not found in her brother’s bed again.

Jaime was wrong. What does he know of a sister’s pure love? 

He told her one night how it all started with him and Cersei. They were children, so young. Some part of Brienne knew then that he’d love Cersei forever, no matter what she did. But Brienne doesn’t think about that. She doesn’t think of him at all.

She doesn’t study a map, calculating how long it should take him to return to King’s Landing. She doesn’t wonder whether he’d board a ship. She doesn’t stare at the empty side of the bed that was his for a few blissful days every morning when she wakes and wonder whether she’ll ever feel that bliss again. She doesn’t cry again; that first night was quite sufficient. And on the night she’s certain Jon must’ve arrived at Dragonstone, which means the siege of King’s Landing might very well begin tomorrow, she doesn’t stay up past midnight because she’s _worried_.

Ser Jaime was never hers to keep. She always knew their time together would be brief and bittersweet. She was _prepared_. She is perfectly fine. The only reason why she’s up when a knock comes on the door past midnight is because she found a very interesting book she couldn't put down and she's most definitely retained all the information on the page about… very interesting things.

She lays down the book, now, and opens the door. Outside stands Maester Wolkan, raven scroll in hand, seal unbroken. From the Citadel, he says. But he can’t find Lady Stark and was told Brienne might know.

“Ser, she got another scroll an hour ago. From Dragonstone." He lowers his voice. "I’m quite worried.”

Brienne takes the new scroll from his hand. “I know where to find her.”

* * *

Cloakless and robeless this time, Lady Sansa sits on Jon's bed in a wedge of moonlight spilling in through the open window. She's so pale and slender she looks almost wraithlike in that nightrail. None of them have eaten well these past weeks of rationing. Many have lost weight, but Brienne hadn't noticed Lady Sansa had as well, not under all those layers and cloaks and furs she wears. But now...

A gust of wind flows in through the window. Brienne shivers; Sansa doesn’t react. 

In a series of quick movements, Brienne wraps furs around her lady, closes the shutters, lights a candle on the nightstand, and builds a fire. Now, in the warm firelight, she can tell Lady Sansa has been crying. Her nose is red and swollen; her lashes and cheeks are wet.

Brienne kneels by the bed. “My lady?”

“What have I done?” Lady Sansa whispers. Her hands rest palms up in her lap. In one of them lies a crumpled scroll. “What have I done?”

“My lady, may I have a look?”

Sansa’s fingers close around the parchment. “I can’t do it, Brienne. Play the games Littlefinger tried to teach me. I can’t. I can’t play people the way he could.”

“I don’t think that’s a bad thing. Only a devious mind can do what he did and you're not devious."

“But it is a bad thing.” Sansa nods repeatedly, chest jolting with unsteady breaths. “It is because I attempted it. I played the game, Brienne, and I played it poorly. I wasn’t thinking! I reacted. I should’ve had a plan, but I didn’t. I was so upset and I reacted and I did something bad.” She leans forward and whispers, “I did something bad.”

Brienne pushes down the worry rising in her chest; she must stay calm for her lady. “May I read the scroll. So I can help you.”

Sansa clenches her hand holding the scroll and presses the fist to her chest. “You can’t tell anyone. You must _swear,_ Brienne. No one can know. _No one_. Swear it.”

“I swear, my lady. On the old gods and the new. Whatever you tell me will not leave this room. Upon my honor.”

Sansa sniffles, licks her lips, nodding again. “Varys is dead,” she whispers. “Daenerys burned him alive for treason. We might be next. Or Jon.” She closes her eyes, mouth twisted with pain. “Jon might be next. And it’s all my fault.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In s7 Jon says it'll take the Dothraki a fortnight to ride from DS to WH. We don't know for sure how long it takes for a dragon to fly from DS to Eastwatch, but we do know we're talking hours not days. We also know a dragon can comfortable keep a ship's speed without having to constantly fly in circles to slow itself down. Presumably a ship and a dragon can travel roughly at the same speed. In 8.04, Dany + dragons + Unsullied; Jon + armies; Arya and the Hound all leave on the same day. When Dany arrives on DS, it's mentioned that it can take Jon and armies two weeks to reach King's Landing. Which implies that, yes, it did in fact take less than a day to sail from WH to DS. Anyway... Arya and the Hound should absolutely have arrived sooner than they did as two riders would be faster than a whole army, but we can headcanon that they got distracted by a sidequest. Perhaps they stopped at the Crossroads Inn and Hot Pie needed help or whatever. Jaime most likely left WF 2-3 days after the others and since he magically arrived in time for the mayhem but didn't arrive at KL's harbor, I'm headcanoning that he rode to WH, took a ship to Gulltown, and rode the rest of the way. I also have to headcanon that all Jon's men had horses or it would've taken them _months_ to march to KL. I know that's incredibly unlikely, but it's either that or Westeros have busses, suddenly. *deep sigh* Feel free to rant about D&D in the comments. Or just laugh. That's what I've been doing because these traveling times mean Jnerys only banged once and that the time that passed between boat bang and assassination is, like, a month tops. And they spent most of that time apart or, when they didn't, mostly at odds. I have laughed about this for a while now :DD


	15. Truth & Lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Trigger warning_ : Jon contemplating assassinating Dany (brief descriptions of hypothetical violence); one scene where Dany emotionally abuses Jon. That’s their last scene together, though.

As a sworn shield, Brienne has learned to wear a neutral mask. The enemies of her lady shan’t be able to watch _her_ during a meeting and learn where her lady stands. Not that she’s among enemies now, granted. They’re in Bran’s chambers with him, Maester Wolkan, and Samwell Tarly, who was gingerly woken by Brienne lest they wake Gilly and the toddler. Still, Brienne doesn’t know what _they_ know and keeps her expression carefully schooled as Lady Sansa speaks.

She’d looked so frail when Brienne left her to get the others (and some mulled wine from the kitchens too). Frail and shivering. She’d opened the window to let in light, she said, hands too unsteady to light a candle and then she'd lost track of time. Brienne had feared they wouldn’t get much coherence out of her, then. But she returned to find Lady Sansa clad in a dressing gown, cloak, and sheepskin slippers, and with her face washed clear of tears. And now, after the heat of hearth and mulled wine have chased away Lady Sansa’s pallor and dull gaze, she speaks efficiently and briskly about things that leave no doubt in Brienne’s mind that Jaime was right.

Something has happened between Jon and Sansa.

These past two weeks, Lady Sansa and Lord Varys have conspired to put Jon--or Aegon Targaryen, which is his true name--on the Iron Throne. And Varys has suggested that he presents Lady Sansa as Jon’s future wife, as the future Queen of Westeros, to the powerful Houses as he believed that would garner them more support than he’d already managed to acquire.

She hadn’t accepted. But, she adds with her eyes downcast and a pretty blush to her cheeks, nor had she declined.

Lord Bran looks unfazed by this, but then he knows everything. Maester Wolkan says nothing, but his chin has dropped and he’s forgotten to put it back in place. And Samwell’s eyes move between Bran and Lady Sansa and the two raven scrolls on the table--one from Tyrion and one from the Citadel--while he thinks so hard Brienne wonders whether the crackle and pop from the hearth in reality is coming from Sam’s brain.

Samwell knew about the parentage, Brienne wagers, but not about the rest.

And, since piles of ashes cannot send ravens, they all know Tyrion is a traitor. A traitor who still plays at being an ally. Brienne has read the raven herself. Carefully worded, as if he feared the scroll could get intercepted and read by unwanted eyes, it explains that Varys was burned for treason, that Daenerys knows Sansa told Tyrion Jon’s secret, and that she knows Sansa only did so out of concern to protect _both_ her queen and her brother as she trusted Tyrion and his judgment. It said nothing about the plotting nor anything about the poison Varys has, according to Sansa, tried slipping into Daenerys food and drink without much success.

“Tyrion could be lying,” Lady Sansa says. “And Daenerys could be on her way right now to burn us all.”

Samwell frowns. “But why send a raven first? A dragon is quicker than a raven. If she wanted to burn us, we’d all already be dead.”

“Yes, you’re right." Lady Sansa nods. "She’s too focused on her throne. She’ll secure it first. Then she’ll come for us. She knows there’s nowhere we can hide.” She sighs. “She knows there’s nothing we can do against a dragon.”

“But there is,” Brienne says and then she and Lady Sansa smile at one another and say at the same time: “Scorpions.”

After Lord Bran saw the undead white dragon in a vision, they had five Scorpions built. They were done the same day Daenerys and Jon arrived but not mounted lest it would look hostile to the Dragon Queen. When she learned of them, she ordered them to be burned for she feared one of her dragons could be hit accidentally. But she never oversaw it; she went off to fly with her dragons, and Sansa had them sequestered in an empty building in the winter town. 

“Mount them atop the wall,” Lady Sansa says. “We need more men patrolling the wall as well. And you have a Myrish Eye, don’t you, maester Wolkan?”

“I do, my lady. I’ll see to it.” Maester Wolkan rises and bows, first to Sansa and then to Bran, his chains jangling softly. “My lady, my lord.”

Brienne leans back in her seat with an exhale. Defense is all they have now--which means Tyrion might be on their side after all. He’s giving them time to prepare.

She tells the other so, then adds, “Do you think he could be on our side after all? Perhaps he’s lying to Daenerys, not us.”

“No, I don’t,” Lady Sansa says. “Varys said Tyrion wanted no part in it. He’s loyal to his queen. I suppose it could be a warning. Perhaps all he wants is for us to stop.”

Samwell picks up the scroll that arrived what feels like days ago now, even though only an hour has passed since Maester Wolkan first knocked on Brienne’s door. She's read that one too. After two days of scouring through High Septon Maynard’s belongings that had all been donated to the Citadel upon his passing, Archmaester Ebrose found proof of Rhaegar’s annulment to Elia, his secret wedding to Lyanna, and even records of the birth of their firstborn--and only--son.

“ _Are_ we stopping?” Samwell says, eyes moving over the parchment. “We do have solid proof now. Better than some old diary." He frowns. "If Jon wants to be king. Does he?”

“I doubt it.” Lady Sansa sips mulled wine. “Nor do I want to be queen. I want us all to be here, at Winterfell. I just didn’t know what to do. I panicked. For as long as Jon lives, he’s a threat to Daenerys’ claim. So, as long as she lives, he’ll never be safe. _Never_. And I don’t want her to rule us. If even Tyrion is frightened of her, what kind of person is she?”

“A monster.” Samwell puts back the scroll. “She burned my father and brother alive for refusing to kneel. And do you know what ser Jaime told me? He came up to me at the feast, to offer his condolences and all that"--he looks at Brienne, nodding as he talks--"rather nice man, all things considered, so we came to talking and I asked him about the battle and he told me she targeted the food! In winter! Wagons and wagons of food. We could've used that. Wouldn’t have to ration now, would we. And she burned soldiers. Thousands of them, even though they were all fresh off a battle and returning to King’s Landing. She didn’t need to use her bleeding dragon. The Dothraki would’ve made quick work of them.” He shakes his head, his face twisted with anger and disgust. “I can't stand her. If she gets the throne, all of Westeros will suffer. You did the right thing, Sansa. Don’t ever doubt that.”

“How can I not?” she whispers. “I didn't think and then everything escalated and now I’ve put Jon in danger. I never should’ve trusted Tyrion with this. What if Jon’s dead already? What if she’s killed him?” Her eyes fill with tears; she puts down the mug and clasps her hands hard in her lap. “Arya’s gone too. She’s done there, I think. What if I lose them both? I’m so tired of losing everyone I love. I’m so _tired_.” 

Tears trickle down her cheek, gleaming like molten gold in the hearth light. Bran only looks at her with blank brown eyes while Samwell is jolting, hands hovering uselessly, as if he’d like to comfort her but can’t decide whether it’s appropriate to hug a lady in her nightrail and dressing gown. Brienne shakes her head at them and lays an arm around Lady Sansa, tucking her close to her side, and her lady melts in her arms. She feels so small. A child really. Brienne rubs her arm soothingly.

“I don’t think Daenerys will burn Jon,” Samwell says in a kind voice. “I know she’s an awful woman, but she is in love with him. So as long as he manages to seem loyal to her, I think he’ll be fine.”

Lady Sansa sniffles and sits up, dabbing her cheeks with the hem of her sleeve. She drinks more mulled wine and exhales a shaky breath before raising her chin and speaking in a voice too even to sound at ease.

“Tyrion believes something happened between Jon and me during the memory loss. He believes we fell in love. And if he gave up Varys, why wouldn’t he betray Jon too? Jon is his rival. Daenerys listens more to Jon than to Tyrion. So, if Tyrion gets rid of him…”

“But Daenerys will ask Jon, won’t she? It’s his word against Tyrion’s lies--and Daenerys does listen to Jon. You’re right about that.”

Lady Sansa’s chin wobbles. She ducks her head, staring into her mug. “But it’s not,” she whispers. “And I don’t know how good of a liar Jon is.”

Bran doesn’t react to this either, but poor Samwell looks as if he moves through a thousand different emotions in the space of two breaths before finally settling on a tentative smile while watching Sansa carefully. She blushes prettily. Sam's smile grows, his eyes lingering on her, and a smile of her own twitches at her lips. She's quick to hide it behind her mug, but it does little to dim her shine. Oh, she _is_ in love--and it must be reciprocated too or she wouldn't shine like that. Brienne can't help but smile herself while Sam's smile turns into a proper grin.

“What was it like?” he asks, eyes sparkling with curiosity.

“Sam!”

“What? There’s no harm in asking, is there? He's my best friend and you're Gilly's. I want to make sure he treated you right or he'll get a taste of this.” He forms a tight little fist he juts menacingly, still grinning.

"I appreciate your concern, Sam," she murmurs, blush deepening into crimson, "but there's no need for violence."

"That good, eh?" He leans in closer. “Are you two… in love? I mean, as Jon and Sansa. Do you want to get married?”

She falls silent for a moment, mug lowering to reveal wine-stained lips no longer smiling. “We haven’t had a chance to discuss it. We'd barely got our memories back before _she_ dragged him south."

“You’d make a good husband and wife--and a good Wolf King and Wolf Queen. Westeros would be lucky to have you.”

“Thank you, Sam. But it doesn’t matter anymore. She’s not a patient woman. There won’t be a siege. She’ll attack and, unless Euron manages to kill Drogon too, tomorrow Daenerys will be queen of us all. Varys is dead. There’s no one left on Dragonstone who can stop her. No one but Jon. And I don’t think he’ll murder a woman. Not Jon. He even spared Melisandre--and she burned a child alive. He wouldn’t kill Daenerys for something she _might_ do.”

“No,” Samwell says with a heavy sigh. “I don’t think he would either.”

They all fall into a glum silence--and in that silence the noises from the courtyard reach them. The murmurs and clanks and thuds and bangs of worried men dragged from their beds to work through the night and mount weapons that will protect them all. 

Hopefully.

As if they're all thinking the same thing, they turn their heads toward the window and listen to the clamor for a moment.

“Well,” Samwell says with a nervous curve to his lips and splashes more mulled wine into their cups, “let’s pray we’re wrong about Jon."

* * *

They have taken Longclaw and his dagger for his words of love sounded like fear and his kiss tasted like it too. Now Jon sits useless on a bed in a chamber no one on this island respects him well enough to call prison cell even though it is one. He may walk freely, aye, but everywhere he turns are Unsullied and Dothraki, and the skiffs are guarded day and night.

The distance from Dragonstone's shore to the mainland would kill even the best of swimmers.

Tomorrow they’re going to King’s Landing. A million people live there, Tyrion said, and in the Red Keep, what, hundreds? This is what war is, then. Hoping that a few hundred people will die because it’s better than the alternative.

Jon rubs his face. Grimaces. Despite scrubbing himself clean with soap for long enough he felt raw, the scent of burning flesh coats his skin. Varys is dead and Sansa will follow. 

Jon barely had a moment alone with Tyrion before Grey Worm appeared and said he was expected in the map room, but Tyrion claims he’s doing his best to protect her. Jon doubts that's true. As much as he liked Tyrion when they first met, so long ago now, he’s proven to be nothing but a craven, scheming, lying piece of shit who’ll give up anyone to improve his position.

Jon can’t trust anything Tyrion does or says anymore--and Tyrion must know how much Daenerys hates Sansa. Protecting her would endanger him and he's not the kind of man who'll stick out his neck for someone else.

But would Daenerys truly kill Jon's family? How can she ever expect him to love her, then?

_Let it be fear._

Jon shudders. She doesn’t believe he loves her anyway.

He’s still alive, though, even though he betrayed her too. Some part of her must believe--or is she clinging to the only family she has left?

Does she even care about that?

Jon stares at his hands as if they hold the answers to all the questions whirling in his mind. (They’re shaking again.) Can he kill a woman with his bare hands? Can he wrap his fingers around her throat and squeeze and squeeze until she turns blue while her wide eyes look up at him and beg for mercy? Can he grab something heavy and bash her head in? See her skull split open and pour out lifesblood until the light in her eyes fades.

Gory images flashing before his eyes make him squeeze them shut and shake his head until they’re gone. It’s so easy to slip a knife between someone’s ribs but _that_ … 

Another shudder travels through him. What kind of man kills a woman for something he fears she'll do? What kind of man kills a woman of his own blood? What kind of man kills a woman whose bed he's shared?

What kind of man kills a woman who loves him.

With a tired sigh, Jon lowers his head to rest in his hands.

A desperate man, he supposes. But even if he did kill her, then what? He wouldn’t make it off the island alive. Grey Worm would kill him and then… Would he march up to Winterfell? Would he take his revenge because Jon took the only person he had left?

Would Drogon?

How clever are dragons anyway?

She hasn’t said she’s going to burn Sansa, though. If she wanted it, she could’ve done it already and been back in time for breakfast. Jon wouldn't even know until it was too late.

Bile burns his throat. He swallows it down and shoots to his feet, opening the shutters and scanning the dark midnight sky for something darker still. He nearly collapses from relief when Drogon's mighty body blots out the crescent moon before diving into the ocean and emerging with something large in his talons.

No, she won't burn Sansa. She'd lose both the North and Jon, then, and anger the Vale and the Riverlands. Even if she hasn't thought of that, Tyrion has. And she won't attack the city itself, only its defenses and soldiers and possibly the Red Keep. She won’t murder innocent people. She’s not _that_ bad. Aye, she executed a man who’s plotted against her, but she was within her right to do so. Jon’s executed men who murdered him. If people commit a crime, they pay for it. That’s how this works. And she's burned soldiers, like most would if they had a dragon to their disposal and wars to fight. Burning all the people she’s come to rule, however...

No, the citizens of King’s Landing should be safe--and the servants and highborn living in the Red Keep are casualties. He and Sansa were willing to sacrifice the Unsullied to keep the truce, weren’t they? They didn’t like it, no, but they did it. They sacrificed the few to protect the many.

And now he’s doing the opposite. 

He’s sacrificing hundreds of people. Perhaps thousands. To protect the people he loves. Oh, fine hero he is. Shield that guards the realms of men. No bleeding truth to it anymore, is there.

_Let it be fear._

He could fuck her.

He’s done it before. Just empty your mind and let your body respond to stimulation. Easy. Nothing to it. Kiss her too. Kiss her like you mean it.

_Let it be fear._

Make her feel _loved_. It works. It’s what she wants. What she needs. He can do it. Jon nods to himself. Exhales sharply. He can do it.

He has to do it. 

* * *

Jon's footsteps echo through the dank castle. The guard who was posted outside his door follows on quiet feet several paces behind (but not so far behind he can’t grab Jon if needed). Outside Daenerys’ chamber stands Grey Worm like a statue. Jon can’t even see him breathing.

“I’m here to see the Queen,” he says.

“She has not summoned you.”

“No, she hasn’t. But she shouldn’t have to be alone tonight.”

Grey Worm’s face remains impassive but his eyes burn into Jon. “Go to bed, Jon Snow. Tomorrow is a long day.”

Then, as if Jon isn’t even there, Grey Worm aims his eyes at the wall and turns back into a statue. Jon’s eyes drift down to the dagger at Grey Worm’s hip. He’d never make it. They'd stop him, Grey Worm and the guard, and then they'd throw him into an actual cell and he'd no longer be able to protect his family.

Jon turns around and walks back to his cell, the Unsullied guard following him the whole way.

  
  


* * *

The winds always howl on Dragonstone. They tug and tear and pull. Jon misses Longclaw's grounding weight on his hip, feels naked and exposed without it. Feels all too light, as if the winds could pick him up and toss him over a cliff (and wouldn't that be a sweet relief). Keeping his head down, he pushes through the force of them, across the grassy hills where Drogon usually rests, and down the winding steps to the beach where Varys’ ashes no longer lie. They've already been scattered by those howling winds.

The two Unsullied escorting him turn around and walk away, leaving him alone with Daenerys and Grey Worm and Drogon, who looms behind his mother.

She looks at Jon much like she did the first day they met, when he was nothing but an insolent nuisance to her.

Rounding his shoulders and clasping his hands before him, he slips into the posture he’s adopted around her where he looks subjugated enough for her taste.

He counts almost twenty breaths before Daenerys starts talking.

“I’ve kept wondering why you told your sister the truth after I ordered you to stay silent.”

Jon stares at the ground, racking his brain for an answer that will satisfy, but no thoughts come to him other than that he's standing almost exactly where Varys stood as he burned. 

“I’m waiting for an answer, Jon.”

“She’s my family.”

“That’s not an answer.”

 _If you knew what family meant, it would be_ , he thinks, but he swallows down that retort before it can slip out of him. “You know the reason.”

“Mm, what was it, she needed to know there were honorable men in the world? Something like that.” Daenerys looks out over the ocean, over the waves of muted blue. This time Jon only counts eleven breaths before she turns back to him and continues with a sugary smile on her lips. “Tyrion shared a fascinating theory with me last night. Would you like to hear it? He believes you and Sansa were intimate during the memory loss and that you told her you were cousins so she wouldn’t have to live the rest of her life believing she’d fucked her own brother. Since it’s _such_ a grave sin.”

Head already halfway through a shake, Jon opens his mouth to deny it when Daenerys makes him shut it again simply by stepping closer. 

“I advise you to tell the truth, Jon. I am tired of lies. Lies are betrayal.” Her top lip curls into a snarl and her eyes drop to the ground beneath his feet. “I think you know what happens to people who betray me.”

Behind her, Drogon creeps closer too until his enormous head casts them both in shadow. Beside her, Grey Worm moves his hand to the hilt of his dagger. 

Jon’s heart beats like a bell in his chest, as if the scared little boy within frantically tugs the rope to sound the alarm. They’ll never believe him if he denies it--and now he does regret it, this precious, secret thing he thought he’d cherish for the rest of his life. Gods but how he regrets it. And he opens his heart and looks into Daenerys’ eyes and lets her see all that regret, all that shame, all that guilt. He let's her see the pain.

“We didn’t know,” he says, voice hoarse. “Tyrion said we were married and we were foolish enough to believe him. And one night, when I felt tired and scared and overwhelmed, I took my rights. What I believed were my rights. And I shouldn’t have. It was a moment of weakness. If I could undo it, I would.”

Daenerys inhales deeply, her chin lifted high. “Finally,” she says through clenched teeth, “ _finally_ , some truth.”

“Dany, that man wasn’t me. I--”

“How many times do I have to tell you. Once should be enough."

Jon bows his head, falling back a step. “My Queen. I’m sorry for not telling the truth, but what could I have done? Tell the world I’d bedded my own sister? If that came out, the truth about my parentage would follow. I was trying to protect everyone. Saying nothing seemed the wisest thing.”

“You could’ve told _me_.”

“And hurt you?” He looks at her with wide eyes, eyebrows tugged up with sincerity. “Over something that _never_ should’ve happened. That never would’ve happened had Tyrion not played his little games.”

Daenerys regards him coolly. “Tyrion believes she might be pregnant,” she says and an involuntary shudder rattles through Jon. “Did that not occur to you?”

“I try not to think about it. It’s…” Jon swallows. “I pretend it never happened. Sansa and I agreed it never happened. It wasn't us. They weren't _us_."

Daenerys hums. “You really do regret it, don’t you.”

“It’s the greatest regret of my life. I _pray_ she’s not with child. I’d have to marry her. I don’t want that. My place is with you. Now and always.”

“I suspect Tyrion is still a bit fond of her. That this is his way of protecting her. If she’s pregnant, I can’t execute her for treason. Not if she carries a baby of my blood. A baby who could be my heir. Or so Tyrion says. He’s always so eager to discuss my demise…” She pauses as if to read Jon's reaction; he stays submissive and silent. “I will admit I thought about it all night. Could I bring myself to raise a child that was part Sansa? If I took the infant as my own, raised him at court, to be a true Targaryen, making sure nothing Stark remained… Mm. I would’ve wanted that child. It would’ve been _mine_.” She gives a delicate little sigh. “Alas…”

She holds out a hand. Out of the pocket of his breeches, Grey Worm pulls a raven scroll and gives it to her.

“Varys still has little birds in the North. Little birds who don’t know he’s dead and still send him messages. Fortunate, isn’t it?” Daenerys offers him the scroll. “Read it.”

It’s sigil-less. Written in the clumsy hand of a child and detailing general castle gossip Jon couldn't care less about. Only one sentence stands out. Jon closes his eyes and breathes out his relief (and the faintest tinge of disappointment). Sansa’s moonblood has come. She’s not pregnant. Another breath leaves him, tremulous. _She’s not pregnant_.

"You look relieved." Daenerys watches him with the hint of a smile. "I almost pity your sister for being so in love with a man who does not want her." Daenerys picks the scroll from his fingers and hands it back to Grey Worm. “I still need an heir, though. Dragons live long; Drogon will need a rider after me. He needs a brother and you’re my only hope. If I command you to give me a son, would you do it?”

Jon blanches. “With _Sansa_?”

Dany turns her head as if to hide how her smile grows before stifling it and looking back at him. “Of course not. I can’t trust a woman who schemes against me.”

“She isn’t. Your Grace, I never would’ve told her if I believed she would. I made her swear a vow to keep it to herself and--”

“And then she told Tyrion.”

“Aye, a man she knew was loyal to you. Why would she do that if she were scheming against you? My only guess is that Tyrion lured it out of her because she thought he was a friend and she needed someone to confide in. If Sansa truly were scheming against you, she would’ve told Varys. She knew him too. From King’s Landing. She knew his loyalty was to the realm, not you. You said it yourself.”

Dany hums, observing him carefully. “Go on.”

“Tyrion saw me flying on Rhaegal. He and Varys. And, as far as they knew, Rhaegal had kidnapped Lyanna. With the information they had, they must’ve figured it out.” When Jon takes another step toward Dany, Grey Worm’s hand returns to his dagger, but Daenerys dismisses him with a handwave. “Your Grace, Tyrion has been working against you for a long time. His family are your enemies, but he loves his family. You saw him at ser Jaime's trial. He’d do anything to protect him and his unborn niece or nephew. I believe he manipulated Sansa into confirming his suspicions, told Varys what he learned in hopes of Varys taking care of everything for him, and now he’s covering his tracks. I don’t think you can trust him.”

“I can’t trust anyone. Well”--she gives Grey Worm a look warm with approval--”almost anyone.” Returning her gaze to Jon, her smile dies and her eyes harden again. “I can’t even trust you. My own blood.”

“You can. I’m here with you. I _chose_ you.”

“Yes, but out of fear or out of love?”

“Aye, you scare me a little," Jon says with a crooked smile. “But can you blame me? You’re the most powerful woman in the world.” When he reaches for her hand, she allows him to hold it. “I chose you because there’s no one like you. No one in the whole world. How could anyone ever compare to you?”

Eyes narrowed, Daenerys holds his gaze for a long enough moment his heart starts racing again. Then she slips her hand from his.

“You better pack your things, Jon Snow. The boat to King’s Landing is leaving within the hour. You’ll get your weapons back on board. And”--she gives him a solid once-over--”I expect you to prove yourself today. Where your loyalties truly lie. It’s your last chance. Use it well."

“I will. I swear it.”

Daenerys cocks an eyebrow. “And a Stark always keeps his vows. Didn't you sister just disprove that?”

He looks her square in the eye. “I’m not a Stark.”

“That remains to be seen."

With one last scathing look, she walks away alone. Drogon flaps his wings and takes to the skies, sand whirling up from the force of it.

Shielding his face with his arm, Jon squeezes his eyes shut and presses his lips together until the sand settles. Then he lowers his arm and blinks to clear his vision, sputtering out the grains of sand clinging to his lips.

Grey Worm still stands before him, clothes and face sprayed with sand. He makes no effort to brush it off or even rub his cold eyes even though tears run from them.

He hasn't let Jon out of his sight for even a moment, and Jon knows then he never will again.

* * *

  
  


With furs slung over her shoulder, Brienne carries two stools to the battlements where Lady Sansa watches her men assembling the last Scorpion. There’s been no word from King’s Landing yet. No more ravens from Dragonstone. And apparently, which was told to Brienne in utmost confidence, Lord Bran can no longer see visions unless he’s seen them before. Temporary, he hopes. (Although, he didn’t look hopeful when he said it--but then he rarely looks anything but aloof.) There has been no dragon sighted, either, but the walls are manned and Maester Wolkan and Samwell Tarly take turns spying the skies with the Myrish eye.

They’re as ready as they can be.

When Lady Sansa hears her coming, she turns around and watches Brienne with a smile as Brienne arranges the stools by a brazier and drapes them with the furs.

“You’re very considerate."

“I assume we won’t get much else done today, my lady. Can just as well stay warm as we stay out here, worrying. Would be a fine joke if we died from a cold rather than fire."

Lady Sansa sits and wraps the furs around her. “It must be difficult for you. Waiting instead of fighting.”

“I don’t enjoy it,” Brienne says, sitting down as well. “Part of me wishes I’d gone with him. I could’ve helped. Even if he decides to stay with his sister afterwards.”

Lady Sansa nods slowly. “Do you judge me, Brienne? For loving Jon.”

“My lady, I took Jaime Lannister into my bed. Clearly, I can overlook… _that_.”

A breathy laugh leaves Lady Sansa, the air around her blooming white. “Fair point.” She shakes her head. “He’s going to hate me--if he doesn’t already--but I don’t care. So long as he lives, I don’t care. He can hate me all he likes. I just want him to live.” She reaches over to Brienne’s lap and takes her hand. “Him and ser Jaime both.”

Then Lady Sansa turns her eyes skyward and Brienne does too. It's blue today. Endless and blue with a small sun shining bright like a yellow sapphire. It’s the finest winter’s day Brienne has ever experienced. The snow-draped fields glitter in the daylight, red-breasted winter birds trill their tunes from branches heavy with snow, and the cold, although it bites the way northern air so often does, feels crisp like apples. It smells of smoked meat, of freshly baked bread, of the ale ever brewing by the brewer maids.

It smells like home, she realizes.

Had Renly lived and won, King's Landing would've been her home. But King’s Landing never smelled like this. It smelled like too many bodies trapped in not enough space. It smelled like lies and deceit and poison coating each syllable spoken by smiling lips.

At the end of this day, it might smell like fire and blood and ashes. It might smell like death.

She tries not to think about that. She tries not to think about Jaime. 

Lady Sansa’s hand remains in Brienne’s and she wonders whether this is what it’s like to have a daughter. 

Not that Brienne will ever know the answer.

(She tries not thinking about that either.)

She lets her mind go as blank as the canvas above. And then there they sit, the knight and her lady, finding strength and comfort in one another’s company, in their shared circumstances, and wait and wait and wait for a dark raven to dot that clear blue sky.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Jon drags himself through ashes and debris, through the echoes of agonizing screams flowing over the city from the survivors collapsed outside its crumpled walls. Some instinct within tries glazing over his eyes to protect him from the horrors surrounding him, but he forces himself to watch every burned body he passes. Every man, woman, and child. Every babe turned to ash in its mother's arms.

This is his legacy. Fire and blood. Passed down through generations of Targaryens--and he truly is one now, isn't he? He allowed this to happen. He let his doubts stay his hand and now those doubts have burned down to cinders with the rest of King's Landing. Cinders that are crushed the moment he sees his little sister among the rubble, hollow face streaked with blood and powdered with ashes. Cinders that disappear entirely when he hears Winterfell mentioned in a speech that terrifies him down to his very core.

This can't happen again--and he’s the only one who can stop the Dragon Queen. The only one who will.

He must be careful, though. Wherever Jon turns, there are Unsullied and Dothraki watching him. Reading his soldier's body. Listening to every word he says. They know more Common Tongue than they let on. And if Jon gives them any reason to doubt him, they'll take his weapons again. They'll throw him in a cell with Tyrion the Traitor. They'll never let him near Daenerys, when this is the only opportunity Jon has for she’s so high from victory she feels invincible. She'll never be this vulnerable again.

Aye, this is his last chance and he will use it well.

Nothing else matters now.


	16. Dark Wings; Dark Words

It’s over.

It’s over and he feels no lighter, his body so heavy it becomes immovable while Drogon and his mother soar higher and higher until they’re swallowed by the ash-filled sky.

His hands are still shaking. (Will they ever stop?) He killed her. The dagger slipped so easily between her ribs. He _killed_ her. A woman who loved him. A woman of his own blood. Blood staining his hands. The weight of it drags him to his knees where he scrubs and scrubs and scrubs at his hands with the snow covering the floor. He wants to scrub his mouth too, scrub away the taste of death, but as he brings a handful of snow to his face he realizes there might be ashes mingled with it. He shakes off the powdery white and drags a sleeve over his mouth instead.

It’s over. Maybe he could lie down now. Lie down in this white and fall asleep. He rolls over on his back, the bun digging into the back of his head, and listens to his breaths. Feels the cold seeping into his weary body. Snowflakes catch in his lashes. He blinks them away. Watches more flakes drift lazily from the sky to coat the world below and him with it. Flakes of snow or ashes. Ashes streaked over a blood-smeared face with wide eyes more familiar to him than his own. Eyes he never wanted to see that haunted.

Arya could’ve _died_. All because of this mess he put them all in. What happened to her is on him too. He must get to her. He must get back on his bleeding feet, drag himself through the city, and find her. 

Jon staggers across the throne room. Out of the shadows of the broken doorway steps Grey Worm and two guards and Jon really shouldn’t be surprised to see him there, blocking Jon's way out, and yet his heart stutters in his chest. Grey Worm is still the perfect statue; Jon can never read his face. The only time Grey Worm looked alive was around Missandei. His heart, his spirit seem to have died with her--and now Jon has murdered the only other woman Grey Worm has ever loved.

This is it, then. Isn’t it.

“Where is Daenerys Stormborn?”

“She flew away,” Jon says.

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Dragonstone, perhaps.”

Grey Worm’s cold eyes roam over his face, over his body. “Where is your dagger, Jon Snow?”

Jon glances down at his hip. Shrugs one shoulder. “Must’ve lost it in the battle.”

“No. You did not.”

Grey Worm takes a step closer and the guards are on Jon, grabbing his arms and pulling them behind his back, before he's even had time to blink. He struggles against their hold, but they are bigger, stronger, taller and hold onto him so tightly he knows he'll get red blotches that will never get the chance to deepen into black and blue.

“I accept no more lies," Grey worm says. "Where is Daenerys Stormborn?”

“Drogon flew away with her.”

“Where is your dagger?”

Jon swallows and lifts his chin. “Lodged in her heart.”

He stares right into Grey Worm’s eyes with that defiant tilt of his chin and waits for the inevitable. Maybe it would be a relief. At least he’ll never have to kill another person. He’ll never have to fight another war. He’ll never have to lie and deceive and hide his true nature. It can all end, finally. One quick slash across his throat and it'll all end.

Despite knowing he should meet his end with his eyes wide open, Jon’s eyes slide shut on their own and it does feel like relief. He’s stayed too long in this realm; the nothingness Melisandre dragged him from will find its belly full tonight.

He’s ready. 

But the bite of the blade never comes.

* * *

All day they’ve waited for a raven and, when it finally shows, it’s so dark outside it melts into the black sky. They don’t see it until it’s so close it’s almost at the rookery tower.

“It could be anything,” Lady Sansa says, but then another raven follows and they both know it’s not. She’s pale when she stands and even though they’re warm in their furs, her voice trembles when she speaks again, “Wait in my chamber, please. I’d like to read it alone, first.”

All day they’ve waited, what is an hour more? And yet the time Brienne spends standing lance-straight by Lady Sansa’s hearth is the longest hour of her life. It feels like a day, a week, a decade. She’ll have grown gray by the time the door handle finally moves. She’ll have grown wrinkly and stooped with age. 

_Please_ , Brienne prays to the gods. _Please_. _Let him live. He can stay with Cersei and their baby, just let him live._

When Lady Sansa at last walks through the door, she says Brienne's name oh-so-softly and looks at her with tear-filled eyes and the pain searing through Brienne's chest is the worst she's ever known. An unearthly cry rips through the chamber. The flagstones bang against her knees, slap against her palms, press against her cheek. Her face feels hot and wet. Someone wails like a child. Wails and wails and wails until her throat aches.

Warm arms close around her. The scent of rosewater, womanly and gentle, surrounds her. She’s rocked back and forth and back and forth until everything turns black.

When the world returns to Brienne, it’s quiet and dimly lit and so, so soft, still rosewater-scented. She’s lying in Lady Sansa’s bed, furs pulled up to her chest. Lady Sansa herself sits by the hearth, moving needle and thread through fabric pulled taut in an embroidery hoop. A pitcher of ale stands on the table, two cups too. She must hear that Brienne is stirring, and yet she keeps her eyes on her work.

Brienne’s own eyes feel swollen and sore, her head pounding. “How long…?”

“Few hours. I hope you didn’t mind that I let you rest, Brienne.”

“Not at all, my lady.”

Her voice is hoarse and weak. That ale calls to her. Brienne extracts herself from the furs. Oathkeeper is not on her hip. It’s leaning against the nightstand. Fragments return to her. She remembers getting to her feet and walking to the bed with some support, fumbling with the buckle of her sword belt, collapsing on the bed.

She remembers too a cool, damp cloth pressed to her face by someone who sang in a hushed voice, and she flushes. She doesn’t even know whether Lady Sansa carries her own pain and she let her take care of her when she should've been strong for her. Brienne sinks to one knee and bows her head.

“Forgive me, my lady. I--”

“Brienne.” Lady Sansa lays a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t. Please. I don’t want to be lady and knight right now. Can we just be us?”

Head still bowed, Brienne nods and sits down on the available chair by the hearth. “Thank you, my-- Thank you.” She lifts her head, then, to look at her lady and shame washes through her anew when she sees that Lady Sansa has cried as well. “Is Jon--?”

“He’s alive.” Lady Sansa swallows. “For now.” She fastens the needle in the fabric and lays aside the embroidery hoop. “Daenerys attacked King’s Landing. It was quick, apparently. And destructive. It's gone."

“The Red Keep?”

“All of it,” Lady Sansa whispers. “The whole city.”

Brienne’s head swims. She has to grip the table to steady herself. “Survivors?”

Lady Sansa grabs the pitcher. “Ale?” she asks and pours Brienne’s cup full without waiting for a reply. Brienne drinks of it gratefully. “Arya was down there. She rode to Rosby. The maester there sent me two ravens with information. According to Arya’s estimate, a few thousand survived. And not all of them will make it through the night.”

“Out of a _million_?”

Sansa nods. “Maester Melwys is traveling there to tend to the wounded. And he’s sent ravens to other castles nearby. Hopefully, they can do something to help, at least.”

“And will Daenerys-- Daenerys!” Brienne flies to her feet. “My lady! She’s coming here next. We have to prepare and--” She stops, staring down at her oddly calm lady. “Lady Sansa?”

Lady Sansa drinks from her cup. Brienne sinks back down on her chair, watching her warily.

“She’s dead,” Lady Sansa says, topping off their cups. “Jon killed her.”

Brienne sags in her seat with relief, almost smiling even though, only a few hours ago, she thought she’d never smile again. Then it hits her. “Killed her?” She sits straight. “The queen he’d sworn himself to? His own aunt?”

Sansa looks away. “Yes.”

“Queenslayer _and_ Kinslayer,” Brienne whispers. Sansa’s lashes flutter like moth wings. She nods faintly. “Oh.” Brienne exhales. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

Licking her lips, Sansa sniffles. “Arya skulked around before she rode off. Jaime and Cersei were found in the rubble. Neither made it. Jon and Tyrion are imprisoned. Arya said she tried finding a way to get Jon out, but he’s too heavily guarded, she lost her faces during the attack, and she’s injured. Some cuts and bruises and a head injury. She almost passed out on her ride to Rosby. Maester Melwys patched her up and has ordered her to rest for a few days. Claims she will be fine, though. If she listens to him.” 

“And Davos?”

“I don’t know. Arya didn’t mention him. Nor did Grey Worm. I received a raven from him about an hour ago. He’s holding a trial for Tyrion and Jon in two weeks and he’s inviting me to attend. And I don’t understand why.” She gives a wet, desperate laugh. “He says they’re both traitors. So why is he keeping them alive?”

“It could be a trap,” Brienne says.

“I know, but I don’t care. I have to go, Brienne. I have to save Jon. I will not let _anyone_ execute him for this and I will bring every man I can. Northerners, wildlings, Knights of the Vale. I’ll even ask my uncle Edmure for his men. But,” she says with a kind smile, “I won’t expect you to come. Not after what you just lost. Arya will be there. She will help me.”

“So will I.” Brienne draws herself up with a breath. “Nothing could stop me, my lady. You are _not_ losing the man you love. If needed I will fight Grey Worm for him myself.” She feels herself ignite with determination. “I will fight them _all_.”

Lady Sansa smiles fondly at her through her tears. “Hopefully, it won’t come to that. But thank you. Thank you so much, Brienne.”

* * *

  
  


Either spring has already come to the south, not a year after winter arrived in the North, or southern winters are fickle. The Dragonpit bathes in sunlight. It’s not purely from nerves Sansa sweats in her northern clothes.

Two weeks have passed since she received Grey Worm’s raven. Two weeks full of worrying and second-guessing and sleepless nights.

Thanks to Arya's scrolls and Bran-warged ravens, Sansa knew many Northmen survived and stayed in the campsite outside the city walls under Davos' command. But most of them were still recovering while the Unsullied and Dothraki remained strong and held the city without difficulty. And Sansa knows well what happens when an army is weak and outnumbered. She couldn't ride down here without more men--especially not when she didn't yet know whether Yara Greyjoy or Lysandor Martell, who both pledged to the Dragon Queen before all this, were loyal still. And while Sansa couldn’t in good conscience rally the few hundred wildlings that remain of the once numerous clans, she did rally the Vale and the Riverlands. She rode to King’s Landing with thousands of men at her back--and every day she wondered whether it was the wrong thing to do. Whether she should’ve appeared as soon as possible to see to the northerners or even negotiate with Grey Worm directly.

Every day she wondered whether she was gambling with Jon’s life. Her only comfort in all this was Bran warging into a bird every so often to peer through the window of Jon's cell and confirm he indeed lived.

Still, her little brother can't spend all day in the body of a bird. Every time he returned to himself, he seemed a little weaker. This morning he didn't have the strength to do it at all. And so when Grey Worm ushers Tyrion and Tyrion alone outside, Sansa is so worried she could vomit. Life has made worry and fear her constant companions, though. It’s almost too easy pushing down those feelings to the depths of her and keeping them trapped there. Hidden.

Bran still can’t see things, he says. But when he’s named king, she can’t help but wonder how much he saw before his powers diminished.

She can’t help but wonder whether it matters. No matter how many birds he wargs into, no matter how many visions he sees, he’s her little brother. He’s still on her side. He agrees to the North's independence and, once it’s all over and Sansa wants to tell Jon the verdict herself and Grey Worm tells her no, Bran reminds them all in his gentle voice that he is king now. That Sansa has his permission.

“You are not king yet,” Grey Worm says. “Until the Night’s Watch men come to take Jon Snow away, we will not leave. For now King’s Landing is ours and you are our guests and Jon our prisoner.” He scowls down at Tyrion. “The other prisoner will tell him.” 

Then Grey Worm nods at two of his men, who haul Tyrion out of the Dragonpit.

“I will not leave King’s Landing,” Bran says. “This is my home now. The Red Keep is my castle."

"It is tomorrow," Grey Worm says. “Today you are our guests and we will prepare chambers for you and anyone else who chooses to stay.”

“Chambers?” Sansa says. “You expect us to stay in the Red Keep? With _you_.”

“Our fight is over. Show us no violence and we will show you no violence. You have my word, Lady Stark.”

“And why should we trust your word?”

Yara Greyjoy barks out a laugh. “A bit rich coming from a Stark. You like to present yourselves as honorable and trustworthy, but the truth is you are all full of deceit and betrayal. Even your father--and especially your brother or cousin or whatever he is. The only thing that makes him better than Jaime Lannister is that he at least wasn't so craven he stabbed her in the back.”

With Brienne and Arya close to her side, Sansa strides over to Yara. Slowly, Yara rises to her full height and juts her chin in the air as if that will make her two heads taller.

Sansa looks down at her coolly. “Theon told me Daenerys did nothing when you were taken by your uncle and you’re still loyal to her? After all she’s done. Why? Do you think Theon would’ve wanted you--”

“Theon?” Yara glares at her. “Theon spent most of his life as a prisoner at Winterfell. First with your father as his warden and then with Ramsay. My brother might’ve escaped, but he was never free. Why else would he return to his captors so he could protect them when you’ve done _nothing_ for him! He was your family’s hostage. He had _nothing_ to repent and you let him die for you--and then you didn’t even have the decency to send his remains to me so I could give him a burial at sea, as is our way. _His_ way. He was a Greyjoy, not a Stark!” Yara steps into her space, eyes burning with anger. “So don’t you _dare_ ask me what Theon would’ve wanted.”

Brienne steps closer too, hand on the hilt of Oathkeeper. Arya even slides her dagger from its sheath. Yara shots her a glance and falls back, hands in the air.

“I’m not looking to fight. We’ve all lost enough.” Yara lowers her hands with a tired sigh. “Don’t take my vote for your brother as any love for the Starks. You won’t find that among the Ironborn. All I want is peace and to return home. I suggest you do the same.”

“From what I hear," Sansa says, "your uncle took most of your ships and men when he attacked you. And most of those ships and men went up in flames. Small wonder you want peace. You can't rebuild your fleet without it. Because that's what you'll do now, isn't it?”

“Of course I will rebuild my fleet. We are Ironborn.”

“And what happens then? Once you've built your fleet. Will we still have peace? Will my brother still be your king?”

Yara gives a wry twist of her mouth, but her gaze remain hard as iron. “We’ll see," she says and stalks out of the Dragonpit with her men in tow, thankfully heading toward the shore rather than the city.

“Do we have to worry?” Arya asks. "I can sneak after them."

“She’s mourning and she’s angry--and she has reason to be.” Sansa shakes her head at herself. “I should’ve sent her Theon’s remains. I can’t fault her for hating me. I'd hate me too.”

“It’ll pass,” Brienne says almost too brightly. "The pain she's feeling. It'll pass."

“Yes, it will pass,” Sansa says with a warm voice to her sworn shield she still hears crying at night, even if Brienne muffles it with her pillow, and then turns back to watch Yara marching off. “And it will take years for her to rebuild which gives me years to build a relationship with her. We do need peace now. All of us.”

Once Yara is so far away Sansa has to squint to see her, Sansa finally takes her eyes off her--only to find someone else's eyes on her, Arya, and Brienne. Still in his seat, legs stretched out and hands folded behind his head, Lysandor Martell is watching them with sardonic amusement.

“Your Grace,” she says, cocking an eyebrow at him. “I hope you enjoyed the entertainment.”

“I did. Thank you. But I would've liked it more had you actually fought one another.” Lysandor gets to his feet and bows to her, eyes never leaving her face. “Your Grace.”

“I’m not…” she begins only to trail off when she notices the proud smiles on Arya’s and Brienne’s faces.

Realization creeps into Sansa like a thousand spiders crawling inside her stomach. She shudders. The Prince of Dorne is right. Once she returns home with the news of their finally won and established independence, she, as the head of her House, will be named Queen in the North.

“I don’t want to be queen,” she whispers. The proud smiles of Brienne and Arya slip, worry now drawing lines between their eyes. “Don’t worry,” she tells them with a heavy heart and forced brightness. “I’ll do my duty.”

She always does.

* * *

The city looks even worse than she’d imagined, every building gaping open like a punched mouth full of broken teeth. The ocean breeze has swept away most of the ashes, though, and whatever bodies remained must’ve been carried off by the Unsullied. They’re all over the castle, the Unsullied, still hard at work. It makes her think of the week of memory loss, when they were among the hardest workers despite Winterfell not being theirs. But then they don’t seem to enjoy idle time much and, as their commander, Grey Worm runs a tight ship.

He’s the one escorting Sansa and the others to the chambers they’ll share. And every time they pass Unsullied workers, they lay down their tools and stand at attention to show their leader their respect. He’s their king now, she thinks, and she must treat him as such no matter her personal feelings. She must trust his word (even if she trusts Arya more when Arya gives her a discreet nod to let her know Grey Worm isn't lying). And he does do a rather good job as a host too, all things considered. He's allowed his guests to keep their own guards and those guards their weapons. He's allowed two Northmen to stand outside Jon's cell with the two Unsullied guards to ensure Grey Worm keeps his word. And in the chamber reserved for Sansa and Brienne, hot food already waits on a table along with wine and cups, and so do a washbasin, pitchers of hot water, a box of soap, and linen towels so they can wash.

They’ve even started a fire in the hearth and lit candles all over the room. If not for the many guards posted all over the keep reminding them how quickly guest can become prisoner, Sansa would almost call it cozy.

“Thank you for this, Grey Worm,” she says and wonders whether he can hear the clank of her armor of courtesy slotting into place. “You’re very considerate.”

“You fed me and my brothers. You housed us and healed us. I do not consider you my enemy, Lady Stark.”

Despite his clipped way of speaking, there’s something about him, the look in his eyes, the tinge in his voice, the way he holds his body, that she couldn’t call warmth or gentleness, perhaps, but something like affability. A wish to end this as amicably as they can, as if this hardened soldier is as bone tired of war and death as the rest of them and just wants to leave this place and find some kind of home.

And if _that_ isn’t the reminder she needs… 

Sansa makes herself smile. “We have a truce. As long as you keep it, the North will show you no violence.”

He nods. “My brothers. Have they been found?”

“Not yet. I'm afraid they might never be found.”

“If they are and they are dead, burn them. If they are alive, they are free.”

Free. Yes, they are, aren't they? Now that Daenerys is dead, they're all free to do as they like. Everyone but Jon.

Somewhere deep in the bowels of this castle, he remains a prisoner. Arya has nightmares every night, she’s confessed. If she manages to sleep at all. Jon must have them too. He must wake up in a sweat every night after dreams of dragonfire and burned flesh only to find himself alone in a dark cell. What does two weeks of that do to a person?

Her heart clenches painfully. “I’d like to see Jon, please.”

“No. Prisoners do not get visitors.”

Hostility pierces her lady’s armor from within; she forces herself to smooth away that prickliness before it shows and speaks in a polite voice. “Why did you spare him? You could’ve killed him that day. Him and Tyrion both.”

“You love Jon like Missandei loved me. You and Tyrion saved her when you could have let her die. You gave me more days with her before she was taken from me. So I spared Tyrion--and I spared the man you love. For you. I am no longer in your debt.”

“I am very grateful, Grey Worm. But why can’t I see him? Just a short moment. I want to make sure he’s all right. Surely, you must understand.”

“I understand,” he says. “It is because of him I say no. When we came here, Daenerys wanted to take the Red Keep--and she would have. But Jon told her no. She listened to him. She always listened to him. If not for him, she would have taken the Red Keep months ago. Missandei would have lived. We would have sailed to Naath. Free. Alive. Together.” He swallows, jaw clenching. “When Missandei died I lived only for one thing: to serve my queen. _Missandei’s_ queen. The queen she chose, the queen she _loved_. And Jon Snow took that from me too. He claimed he loved Daenerys. I know that was a lie. I _see_.” Grey Worm punctuates that statement by staring deeply into her eyes. “I watched Jon Snow every day--and I know the woman he loves the way I love Missandei is you. Do _you_ understand?”

Sansa’s gaze flicks to the armed guards behind him, and she hears Brienne moving closer to her.

Grey Worm sighs. “You do not understand.”

He dismisses his soldiers with a nod and folds his arms behind his back. Brienne still stays close to Sansa. When he turns back to them, his eyes shine with unshed tears. 

“You are _lucky_ ,” he says with more feeling than she’s ever heard in his voice. “At least the man you love lives. But I cannot give you more than that for that would reward _him_. Now do you understand?"

Sansa nods slowly. She knows then what it was she saw in Grey Worm. Not gentleness, no, nor warmth.

He’s lost the woman he loves and the queen he served and countless of his own men too. Men he calls brothers. He’s lost his purpose and has no home to which he can return. He has only justice--and he couldn’t even dole out the punishment he wanted for he loved Missandei too much to punish the woman who saved her.

It's grief that has softened Grey Worm. A grief that has mellowed from a red-hot burning need for vengeance to dull acceptance--and the exhaustion that comes with the knowledge that you’ll have a hole in your heart for the rest of your life.

Sansa knows that feeling all too well. And in that moment, while she doesn’t feel the least bit lucky and she knows part of her will resent Grey Worm always, compassion wins out and she sees her own hand reaching for his. Grey Worm looks at her with round eyes, the tears in them shimmering in the candlelight.

“I’m sorry you lost her,” she says and gives his hand a squeeze. “She seemed like a wonderful woman.”

Grey Worm’s bottom lip quivers. He presses his lips together so hard they pale, the muscles in his jaw pulled taut. Then he draws his hand from hers, gives a curt bow, and leaves her and Brienne alone.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Escorted by two guards, Jon steps into the bathhouse where a large square pool of water waits for him, steam rising from the surface. After sitting in his own filth for two weeks, he smells worse than a battlefield. This hot bath with soap in little dishes, clean water in pitchers, and linen cloths to scrub himself clean looks more inviting than all the seven heavens combined. It looks like a trap--and it might be one, he realizes, when he passes a pillar and sees Tyrion submerged in the water. 

A trap for them both, it seems, for Tyrion looks as surprised to see him and shoots suspicious glances at their captors. Grey Worm enters the room, then, carrying a bundle of fabric and fur with a scabbard lying atop it. Longclaw. Jon's hand twitches.

“Once you are cleaned and dressed,” Grey Worm says, “you are no longer our prisoners. We are leaving Westeros in two hours. There are men of the Night’s Watch here, waiting for you. They will escort you to your ship.” He hands Jon the bundle. “I wish to never see you again. If I do”--he gives Tyrion a long hard stare before looking back at Jon with eyes like obsidian--”I will not be this generous.”

With a command in his own tongue, Grey Worm and the guards leave and it’s the first time in a long time that someone hasn’t constantly watched over Jon. 

Well--he looks at Tyrion, who’s looking up at him with a mirth that must be fake--someone with a weapon.

“Nice of them,” Tyrion says. “Letting us bathe. I had to put clean clothes on a dirty body yesterday. Never quite liked that feeling.”

“Thought I’d seen the last of you," Jon says, pulling his rank tunic over his head.

“Yes, so did I. This makes our goodbye rather anticlimactic, doesn’t it.” His quick smile doesn’t warm his eyes. “I suppose Grey Worm wanted one last joke. He might’ve promised not to kill the King of Westeros’ new Hand, but he didn’t say anything about letting _you_ kill me. It’s not as if your brother will execute you for it. So, by all means…” He holds out his hands in invitation. “I hear drowning is a rather pleasant way to go. Unless a corpse floating in the water would spoil your bath too much. Suppose you could always drag me out of the pool and stab me. Now that you have your sword back.”

Jon stops unlacing his breeches to stare at him.

“Too soon?” Tyrion says with another smile, sad this time. “Sometimes I make jokes in uncomfortable situations to make them a little less uncomfortable.”

“And how’s that working out for you?” Jon steps into the pool on the side opposite Tyrion. 

“I convinced you to kill the woman you love, Jon. You could hardly be blamed for wanting to kill me. Clearly, our friend Grey Worm approves."

With a satisfied groan, Jon sinks down until the water reaches his shoulders. “I don’t want to kill you.”

Tyrion watches him from under his unkempt hair. “I know what it’s like, you know. Killing the woman you love. I know how it haunts you.”

“Who did you kill?”

“Her name was Shae.”

Jon nods and grabs a linen cloth and soap, working up lather. “Sansa’s handmaiden in King’s Landing.”

“Indeed. And my whore.” Tyrion sighs deeply. “My love.”

_No, not your love. You know nothing of it. You don’t kill the people you love. You do everything you can to keep them alive and safe--no matter the personal cost._

He wants to hurl those words at Tyrion, but Jon bites his tongue. He’s become rather good at that. He starts washing himself clean.

“You learn to live with it,” Tyrion says. “You move on. You find someone else to love. And you’re younger than I was. You have your whole life ahead of you.”

“Aye, take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. That life.”

“Jon,” Tyrion says, kindly, “your brother is king of Westeros. Your sister will most likely be named Queen in the North when she returns home. Once everything calms down, I don’t see why they wouldn’t pardon you. Give it, I don’t know, three-four years.”

“I don’t want a pardon. I’ve gotten what I deserve.”

“You might not feel that way in three-four years.”

“Yeah?” Jon pauses his scrubbing. “And who’ll want me after what I did?”

Well, _fuck_. Maybe he’s not that good at biting his tongue. He swallows down the bitterness that seeped into his voice and keeps his lips firmly shut.

“You don’t know women, I hear. With that face, that body, a lot of them would.” Tyrion shrugs a shoulder. “Sansa would.”

Jon makes himself very busy lathering his greasy hair with soap, grateful that the hot water has already brought a flush to his skin

“Varys scrolls flew all over the realm,” Tyrion says. “Everyone knows who you are now. The Citadel has even confirmed it. You could be King in the North again. Or at least king consort. You could live the rest of your days at Winterfell and have many fat red-haired children.” He pauses; Jon keeps massaging his scalp clean. “She loves you, Jon. She could make you happy--and you would treat her the way she deserves.”

Jon says nothing; he can feel Tyrion's eyes on him and grabs the linen cloth to scrub his face and beard.

“She confessed to me,” Tyrion says. “She fell in love with you that week and she loves you still.”

Jon fumbles after a pitcher and pours it over his head until his hair squeaks when he runs his fingers over it. Then he puts down the pitcher with a clink and locks his eyes on Tyrion.

“You wanted Daenerys dead and you made me kill her. And now you’re trying to make me marry Sansa. Can't help but think that _you_ love her. Are you trying to live through me, Tyrion? Is that it?”

“Who among us isn’t a bit infatuated with the lovely lady Sansa? Even you, when you lost your memories, seemed a bit… smitten.”

"Then why don't you marry her?"

"She doesn't want me. She wants you." Tyrion tilts his head to the side in a way that must be calculated for it makes him look even less imposing. "I'm only trying to help."

Jon pulls his mouth into a mirthless smirk. “Oh, I see. Conscience struck sometime during the night, did it. You feel bad for making me do what I did when you’re the one who got Daenerys here. When you’re the one who helped her every step of the way. And instead of being sent to the Wall like me, you get to be Hand. Must be hard for you.”

Tyrion tucks in his chin in an abashed nod. “I might have a bit of a bad conscience, yes.”

“Not my problem.” Jon rises, the water running down his body, and he doesn’t miss the way Tyrion looks at him. At his body, at his scars. There’s envy there. Just a touch of it. “Treat my brother well. If you’re as bad a Hand to him as you were to Dany, I’ll leave the Wall and kill you myself.”

Then Jon throws the linen cloth on the floor, grabs his bundle, and leaves, naked and all, before he can bore his eyes into Tyrion and tell him to stay the hell away from Sansa and reveal himself and his feelings entirely. He’s not even sure he’s properly clean, but he can’t spend another moment in Tyrion’s presence and keep up this exhausting fucking ruse.

Putting on Jon Snow’s clothes hurts. Longclaw’s weight on his hip no longer feels like a comfort. The Night’s Watch men waiting for him don’t look like brothers but gaolers. 

The harbor of King’s Landing is full of Dothraki and Unsullied boarding the few ships that remain of Daenerys’ fleet. Grey Worm is there too, watching him from his perch as if he won’t leave until he’s certain Jon sails off to the Wall.

Jon walks on, his king’s cloak flapping in the wind.

He's never felt less worthy of it. The moment he arrives at Castle Black, he'll throw it in some chest and take the black for good.

It'll be different this time. He's under no illusions. It won't be a disappointment for he knows what he's giving up and what he's getting. And at least it's better than spending the rest of his days in King's Landing as a mercurial queen's bedwarmer.

It will be fine. _He_ will be fine--and then he sees, among all the shades of stone and sand and water surrounding him, a shade of red that always draws his eye and he thinks he'll never be fine again.

No.

He can’t. She’ll want a hug, he knows, and if he allows himself to hug her, he’s not sure he can ever let her go.

But he must. He must stay strong--and he does stay strong as he says goodbye to her and Arya and the man who once was his little brother and now is his king.

His strength only falters once, when his eyes move to Sansa one last time of their own accord, the way they always do as if she wove a spell around him and tied it to her heart to make him hers forever the day she gifted him a cloak and claimed him as a Stark. But he's not a Stark. Never was, never will be, never can be. He must let go now and he tears himself away and heads to the skiff. Once he’s in it, he doesn’t allow himself to turn around.

They’re not his family anymore. They can't be associated with the man he's become. History won't remember him as the shield who guards the realms of men nor the bastard who once was chosen king by his people and fought for their independence and gave his all to protect them from the dead.

No, he’ll be known as queenslayer, kinslayer, and a man without honor. Traitor, turncoat, Targaryen. The man who helped his aunt burn down a city.

Tyrion must know that. As Jaime Lannister's brother, he must know how those titles are branded onto your skin. He was only fishing for the truth in that bath, fishing for secrets because a man like him hoards them until they’re useful to him. He knows Jon could never marry Sansa no matter how much he wishes it. After all he’s done, giving away his crown, helping a tyrant and conqueror, dragging his men down south to help her too, the North would never accept him as king or even king consort. And a wife deserves a better husband. A child deserves a better father--and Jon is getting exactly what he deserves. 

It's over.

Everything he’s always dreamed of, everything he’s always wanted, is as out of reach as his dagger still lodged in Daenerys’ heart. He could not be more grateful now that his night with Sansa bore no fruit. That’s the only blessing in all this shit. At least no one will ever know how he dishonored Sansa; her reputation will not be besmirched by him. He’s going to the North now--the real North--where he belongs. And there he will hide his and Sansa’s dirty little secret beneath a mound of snow that never melts. It will be as if it never happened--truly this time. 

Aye, it’s over, all right. It’s all over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... we're almost done with canon! Woo. Next chapter will have some between-canon-scenes scenes and, finally, some post canon scenes. I think. I have not written it yet, but if I were to estimate, which I know is not my forte but maybe I'll succeed just this once! Oh, and why Tyrion is Hand and Jon banished will be addressed in the upcoming chapter.


	17. Better Things To Come

Sansa watches Jon walk down the pier, jump into the skiff, and float away toward the ship that will take him to the Wall. He keeps his back to them the whole way and she knows then that this is it. Their last goodbye. And no matter how much she tries committing him to memory--his face, his voice, his body so warm and solid against her own--she knows it will all fade with time until only a hazy sense of him remains.

It’s already begun. The scent she only a moment ago breathed in so deeply it should be part of her forever has already been chased away by the briny winds of the ocean. 

She loved it once, that smell, thought it smelled like freedom and better things to come. Now it smells nauseatingly rotten.

Still she stays out here on the pier with her sister and brother watching the Unsullied and Dothraki sail away. Their voices carry so well across the water. She can hear them shouting commands and chatting, even laughing as if they’re as eager to leave as the Starks are to see them go. She knows they would hear her too, were she to speak. And while she might not understand them, most of them understand the Common Tongue well enough by now.

As if her siblings think the same thing, they stay silent until the last ship is gone.

“You all right?” Arya asks.

The water rolls to and fro, kissing the dock in undulating motions. Sansa turns from the ocean and its upsetting stench, and starts walking toward solid ground. Arya grabs Bran’s wheelchair and follows.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sansa says. “That you’re leaving.”

“Because I didn’t know. Or… I hadn’t decided. Thought I’d stay in Winterfell if Jon didn’t come back home. But then he got his sentence and Gendry was sitting there and I could feel the way he kept looking at me. As if he were hoping I’d change my mind and come to Storm’s End with him. And I thought about what you said. That it wouldn’t be fair on either of us if I stayed against my will. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.”

“It wouldn’t be,” Sansa says, quietly. “Fair on either of us. If you want to travel you should.”

“I’ll be back. And so will Jon. He just needs to hide for a bit and then he’ll be back. You know what he’s like.”

“Yes, I do. Which is why I know you’re wrong. I’ll never see him again.”

Even though the ships are as small against the horizon as flies against window glass, Arya still takes a proper look around before she speaks. “He must know you and Bran will pardon him once things calm down if he wants it. He knows you’d never make him stay up there for the rest of his life. Because you wouldn't, would you? He needs time, Sansa. All of this”--Arya sweeps her eyes over the broken skyline of the city Sansa once coveted more than anything--”he blames himself for it. You know he does.”

“I know, but it’s more than that. He has not forgiven me for what I did. And I don’t think he ever will.”

“Of course he will. We’re family. And he loves you. He loves you the way you love him. I wasn’t sure at first. I wasn’t. But I watched him now, and the way he hugged you…” Arya lays a hand on Sansa’s arm, stopping her. “Sansa, look at me. He looked almost frightened to hug you back. Don’t you see what that means?”

Sansa’s throat tightens painfully and when she speaks, her voice comes out strained and shaky. “I know he loves me. I know he loved me all along. And I know he never wanted to. He resents me for it. It’s why he can’t forgive me. It’s why he always leaves. Because all he wants is to be an honorable man, someone Father would’ve been proud of, and he can’t be as long as he loves me. And after all he’s done...”

“He’s had good reason.”

“I know that. But no one else does and it’s going to take a lot of work to make people trust him again. A lot of work he’d never want to do.”

Arya looks away, her shoulders slumping, her small face dejected. Defeated.

“I’ve had a lot of time to think about him and me lately,” Sansa says. “And today, when I saw the way he looked at me, I finally understood. He doesn’t _want_ to love me, Arya. He was never going to choose me.”

Tears prickle Sansa’s eyes, but she refuses to stand here like a pathetic little girl and cry for a man who might love her enough to protect her but not enough to fight for her. To fight for them. So she leaves the pier with brisk steps and returns to the keep to get to work.

She’s been so stupid, fighting for him when he didn’t want her to. When he didn’t want _her_. 

No, he was never going to choose her. No one ever does. 

* * *

Arya nudges a brick out of the path with her foot before proceeding to push her little brother toward the godswood. Once a heart-tree grew there, Bran tells her. One almost as big as the weirwood at Winterfell. But it got cut down and now only a stump remains. With a thoughtful look on his face he runs his palm over it.

“It’s dead,” he says. “I need a new tree. It will help my powers grow strong again. I’ll ask Sansa for a cutting of our weirwood. I’ll plant it here. It will be connected to the others.” He pats the stump before folding his hands in his lap. “In theory.”

“You can’t see anything yet.”

“Nothing new.”

“Do you think Sansa is right? That Jon will never return home.”

“I don’t know.”

“When I was in Braavos, I watched a play about the Lannisters. Father was in it. And Sansa. They had so many things wrong and everyone’s favorite was Cersei.” She folds her arms over her chest, frowning. " _My_ favorite was Cersei--and I hated her."

“The truth twists in the hands of men. I have seen so many things that contradict the history books.”

“Which means people might see Jon as nothing but a traitor who took too long to do the right thing. He might never be forgiven in the eyes of the realm.” Arya sighs and sits down on the stump, thumping her heels gently against the trunk. “Can you tell me now? Whether it changed. The good future you saw.”

Out on the gray-blue waves of Blackwater Bay, Stark ships glide toward the harbor. Later tonight, they will take Sansa and the Northern armies home. She won’t stay for Bran’s coronation, and neither Arya nor Bran will attend the one undoubtedly awaiting her. And Jon…

Perhaps Sansa was right. Arya loves Gendry--she does--but not enough to stay for him. It would cost her too much. Maybe that’s how Jon feels about Sansa.

“The future always changes,” Bran says, drawing her attention back to him. “People make their choices and things change. But some things, no matter what people chose, always ended up happening in some way or another. Every time I looked.”

“Like what?”

Bran turns his head to watch the ships too, the pale gray Stark sails with the direwolf sigil almost the color of the sky. Soon Arya will leave on one of those too, to discover what’s west of Westeros.

What would Father think if he saw them now? Would he understand how Winterfell hasn’t been home in such a long time, returning there doesn’t appeal to her at all?

Everything is too odd now, and she’s sick of all this intrigue, of the tension that feels so different now that they’re old enough to have grown past it. She wants the wind in her hair and adventures on the horizon. She wants to travel to explore and learn new people and new places; she doesn’t want to travel to flee from her enemies or find revenge. She wants to live, for once, and thrive. And the thought of Winterfell is stifling.

If she stays there, she’ll end up as lifeless and dull as the stump beneath her.

“Daenerys didn't leave the North as quickly,” Bran says. “It gave us time. To reach through to Jon. To work together. And for you to ride south and take care of Cersei. What happened next kept changing, but it always resulted in the same thing: Daenerys dying before ever sitting on the throne--and after burning parts of the city. But never the whole city. And it was never Jon who killed her. He was never imprisoned. There was never a trial.”

“Did he become king?”

“He always refused. He always rejected his Targaryen name. He always suggested me instead. And I was always chosen. Tyrion, when he lived, went to the Wall. And Jon and Sansa returned to Winterfell together. She was crowned. The lords didn’t want Jon back after he gave away the throne so easily. He stayed, though, at Winterfell and… Some time later they fell in love. They married beneath the heart-tree. She wore blue winter roses in her hair. A white dress. She looked so beautiful, so happy. And so did he. Then there was a child. A boy. Red hair and brown eyes. Robb Eddard Stark. He learned to walk in spring.”

Bran smiles faintly, his eyes glistening. The ocean breeze ruffles his hair and he shivers, pulling the furs more tightly around himself. The sun shines brightly in the south, but it’s still small and distant and the light only warms a little. But Arya closes her eyes and turns her face toward that sun and imagines it warmer and bigger. A spring sun shining down over Winterfell and the red-haired toddler learning to walk in the godswood like she once did. Like Robb and Jon and Sansa and Bran and Rickon all did. Gods, she loved to play in that wood. She can almost feel the pine needles pricking the tender soles of her feet. Tender after spending a long winter in boots she now finally could kick off to splash her feet in the pond and feel grass between her toes before Septa Mordane screeched at her to pull her boots on already for a proper lady did not prance around barefoot like a peasant!

“I liked to linger there,” Bran says and Arya smiles at the images his voice conjures, at how they mingle with her own memories. “They were so happy. Winterfell was warm and joyful. Like when we were children. Little Robb looked so much like Rickon at that age. Different coloring, yes, but his face and his wild ways… It almost made me feel like Bran again. I visited it so often it felt like the present. As if I returned to the past every time I returned to myself. As if we were living in history, waiting for time to catch up to a future so bright. But now…”

His voice fades and Arya opens her eyes to find a tear glittering on her little brother’s cheekbone. He blinks slowly and another tear follows the same track and farther still, pooling at the corner of his mouth.

“Now," he says, "I don’t know what will happen to our family.”

“You did what you had to or the Night King would’ve won.”

“I know, Arya.” He looks so small, so lost then she would’ve hugged him if she thought he’d welcome it. “I know I had no choice, but it doesn’t make it easier to bear.”

* * *

Not one building stands untouched by dragonfire. Wood has burned and stone has melted and walls have crumbled to reveal homes abandoned in a haste. Brienne and Lady Sansa pass a dinner still on the table, the chairs singed and the plates filled with ashy goo that have dried into revolting cakes. They pass trampled dolls and dropped bags and shoes flown off panicked feet. They pass people picking clean the buildings closest to the wall as if the Unsullied and Dothraki leaving made people brave enough to venture back into the city.

When they see the knight and the lady, they freeze like deer in torchlight--but the fear turns into curiosity when they notice the carts that follow behind.

Edmure Tully brought smoked fish, Robin Arryn brought pumpkin preserves and sacks of barley for soup, and both of them brought herbs to fill the maesters’ stores. Lady Sansa brought Winterfell ale and what furs she could spare. They are to share it with the survivors of King’s Landing, the ones still recovering in the campsite set up outside the city walls, while the Northmen pack up their things to sail home. 

According to Davos (who along with the Northmen and Lady Arya have helped these past two weeks since the attack) they won’t be spat on. Consensus for now says Daenerys is to blame. Perhaps the number of Northerners who had to be treated for burns helped there. When one’s bed neighbor shares one’s wounds and one’s hate for the person who inflicted them, bonding is bound to happen. And stories about the battle against the dead have spread too and garnered (among those who believe them, that is) some goodwill for the North.

Still, Lady Sansa looks nervous--at least to Brienne’s eyes. By now she knows that tilt of Lady Sansa’s chin and the way she rubs her palm. Not that she lets it stop her. Ever the creature of duty, she walks into the camp without hesitation.

  
  


They stay until the sun dips low enough in the sky they are given torches to light their way back to the Red Keep. Brienne glances at Lady Sansa. Her lady’s mask, the one she wore the hours she spent holding hands and leading prayers and re-dressing wounds and listening to worries, is still on.

Their appearance created whispers. News about Jon’s parentage had spread even here, by the maesters no doubt. And while some did believe Jon Snow was forced to give up his crown and bring his still-healing army south, others talked about Aegon Targaryen helping his aunt burn everything in her path. That’s their way, isn’t it? Those cursed Targaryens. He didn’t kill her, either. The Kingslayer killed her and the dragon burned him for it--and so Jon Snow took the credit to save himself. He and the Imp both. Neither can be trusted, after all. The way their loyalties twist and turn makes good people’s heads spin.

Some even whispered, “Oh, that poor lady. To be fooled and betrayed so by a man she believed her brother.”

Lady Sansa never said a word about it. She kept a perfect almost-there smile on her face and promised to send timber down south to help in rebuilding the city and its defenses, as many worry the dragon will come back to finish the job.

It’s only now, when they are enough paces away from the campsite no one but the moon and Brienne can see her mask fall, that Lady Sansa lets her exhaustion show. Her heartache.

 _I know how you feel_ , Brienne wants to say. _I know what it’s like to love a man whose skill with a sword might be admired but whose word and character will never be trusted again. I know how one must suppress the need to shout at the world that they’re wrong. That they don’t know him the way you know him_.

But none of that would help. Not now. Not this soon. Instead Brienne proffers her arm to lean on, and Lady Sansa accepts it with a faint but true smile.

“We’ll soon be home, my lady. Tomorrow we’ll go to sleep in our own beds.”

“Brienne,” she says in a tone that makes Brienne’s shoulders tense up, “how do you feel about Bran? Do you think he’ll be a good king?”

“He’s… a bit strange, perhaps, but he has seen more than any living person. He knows things no maester could ever learn, no matter for how long he studied. He’ll know which mistakes to avoid repeating--” Hearing her own words, Brienne is quiet for a beat. “Forgive me, my lady. May I be frank?” She waits for Sansa’s nod of approval. “His choice of Hand would challenge my statement. Tyrion betrayed the realm and he’s getting rewarded for it. Why isn’t he being tried for his crimes and executed?”

“We couldn’t risk it. If we tried him, then it would give people reason to insist on Jon being tried too. People are looking for someone to blame, and with Daenerys dead and her body gone Tyrion and Jon are far too easy targets. To protect one, we had to protect the other too. It was easier to focus only on the queenslaying. Not enough people cared about that to insist on execution.”

“But _Hand_ , my lady. That’s a bit much. We can’t trust him.”

“No, we can’t.” Lady Sansa slows to a stop and turns to face Brienne, her face wan even in the golden light of the torch. “Bran says he’ll need Tyrion for something in the future. He wouldn’t tell me what. The only thing I can think of is that Tyrion still has friends and relatives in the Westerlands while we have no ties there. But _that_ he could’ve shared so I’m sure it’s something else. Either way, he said that this way, he’ll be able to keep an eye on him.”

“Keep your friends close but your enemies closer?”

“Something like that.” Lady Sansa takes a step forward and the look in her eyes makes Brienne’s shoulders grow even more tense. “I would like you to stay here, Brienne. To be Lord Commander of Bran’s kingsguard.”

“But… My lady, my place is with you. I have sworn an oath to serve you.”

“I relieve you of that vow. I need you here. The North is full of people loyal to me, but Bran is all alone. He needs someone he can trust completely, and with Arya traveling, there’s only you.”

Brienne staggers back as if slapped. “But you’ll be queen. You need me.”

“I need you here more.”

Brienne's body feels too large for her armor, the once bespoke pieces chafing her skin. The future she’d comforted herself with--a future as the protector of the first Queen in the North and whatever heirs she’ll have--now crumbles like the city around them.

“I’m not going to force you,” Lady Sansa says, gently. 

Brienne nods, her breathing ragged. She swallows, hard. “I will do what my lady commands. Of course I will. But… If I may suggest something? Podrick is a trustworthy and loyal young man. And he’s becoming an accomplished fighter. Let me train him. Once he’s good enough, he can take over and I can return to you.” Brienne lifts her chin. “Where I belong.”

Lady Sansa’s smile isn’t so faint then. It’s not beaming either, granted, but it’s undeniably there and undeniably warm. As if, perhaps, she does need Brienne after all, and Brienne’s armor feels bespoke again.

“All right,” Lady Sansa says, still smiling. “We have reached a compromise.”

They don’t walk for long, though, before that warm smile gives way to weariness. But then only a monster could keep a smile on their face while walking through a city that bustled with life only weeks ago and now lies desolate. Brienne isn’t one to believe in ghosts, but even she gets a chill down her spine at this eerie stillness. When the wind picks up and winds through the gaping buildings, it sounds a little too much like the echoes of terrified screams for comfort.

Lady Arya hasn’t said much about what happened that day. But last night she woke them with screams born from nightmares she refused to share. They merely sat together, the three of them in the same featherbed, until dawn broke.

“I can’t even imagine,” Lady Sansa says. “And Arya was in the midst of it. Small wonder she wants to leave. And Jon…” She shakes her head. “I’ve been so selfish.”

“My lady--”

“I have. I’ve been too disappointed to see that Jon returning to the Wall means he’s protected. From other people’s anger and blame. From the vile things they say. And he’ll have Tormund and Ghost. He won’t be alone with his guilt.”

“What happened here is not his fault.”

“I know that. But he blames himself. I know he does. Anyone would.”

Those last two words come out in such a delicate whisper, Brienne can’t help but wonder whether Lady Sansa blames herself too.

“Up there,” she says, turning her face northward as if she could see the Wall from here, “he won’t be reminded every day of what happened here. He won’t have to be around all the people who lost faith in him. It sounds almost nice, doesn’t it? Running away for a while.” She nods to herself. “Maybe that’s all it will be. A few years and then he’ll at least visit. He won’t ever want to be with me. I know that. It’s too complicated. But at least I’ll see him.”

 _At least the man you love lives_.

For all their shared circumstances, that one difference casts such a divide between them that when Lady Sansa’s face brightens with a flickering flame of hope, Brienne’s heart darkens with the ugliest kind of envy. An envy that seeps into hate, not for Lady Sansa but for Jaime for being so stupid. For running headfirst into danger and dying. For leaving her alone when she’d just learned what it was to love, truly love, and be loved in return.

But she can’t hate the man she loves for dying while trying to save his sister and unborn child. And she can’t begrudge Lady Sansa that hope.

Two men, Brienne has loved. And both of them she has lost. 

She wouldn’t wish that heartache on anyone.

"I'm sure you'll see each other again," Brienne says, smothering those ugly feelings beneath the weight of her own pain. "In a few years, you'll see each other again."

* * *

After a few days spent in the ruins of King’s Landing, returning to Winterfell is almost a shock. 

Everywhere Sansa looks, there are people working and children playing and dogs barking and cats hunting for mice. There’s work for her too, lords and ladies to appease, empty castles to appoint to new families, a winter to plan for and a coronation too. She’s been home barely a fortnight before she’s sewn into her coronation dress by her new handmaiden, Annika, and Erena Glover, whose skill with a needle almost rivals Sansa's own.

With all this going on and with all these people surrounding her, she shouldn’t have time to miss anyone and she shouldn’t feel so achingly lonely, but she does. Nor should she send an invitation to Castle Black, but she does that too. Oh, she knows he won't come, but perhaps it will mean something to him. Perhaps he’ll feel wanted. Perhaps it can be some comfort when he lies down at night, as alone as her, and longs for something better.

As she sits down on her throne for the first time, she can't help but search the crowd for his face. Listen for his voice. And during the feast afterwards, she can't help but shoot glances at the door in case he’ll burst through with flushed cheeks and snow-strewn hair and a look in his eyes she only really saw those days when he was the wolf sword man and she his lady.

She shouldn't feel disappointed when he never shows, but she does.

Only seven weeks have passed since their night together. Their one brief night. He was never her husband, not really, and the words he gave her that night meant nothing. Only his words as Jon mean something and he asked her to let him go. He's made his choice; she'd be a fool not to listen.

That night, once she’s in her nightrail and Annika has gone to bed, Sansa walks to Jon’s chamber and takes one last look at everything inside. She smells his clothes, runs her fingers over his furniture, and allows herself the briefest moment curled up in his bed, hugging his pillow. Then she returns to her own bed.

Tomorrow she’ll have the chamber cleared and cleaned, his belongings packed into trunks.

She has a kingdom to rule; she doesn’t have time to pine after a boy like the lovesick girl she hasn’t been in years.

It’s time she moves on.

* * *

With the knowledge of construction they amassed during those weeks in Winterfell when everyone helped in restoring the destruction war wrought, Tormund and the rest of the Free Folk manage to turn the once four-house village Whitetree into a ten-house village. 

Well, all right. They _will_. In the two weeks since Jon escorted them here, they’ve repaired the four ramshackle huts and started constructing the rest. Whitetree grows a little every day. They’ll live a good life here. The Haunted Forest does have some game. The river half a day’s trek from the settlement gives them fish. And once they’ve killed some bears and shadowcats for pelts, they can trudge back south and trade them for some goats. He’s promised Sansa that he and his won’t go stealing things now and they can’t go without goats. What’s the Free Folk without their sour goat’s milk?

Fists resting on his hips, Tormund stands back and surveys the work before him with a satisfied exhale. Aye, they’ll grow strong here, he and his people. Bellies will grow round with babes. The village will sprout more huts. And soon men and women will leave to form their own settlements, their own clans. Things will, slowly but surely, return to normal.

“I always knew you were lazy,” a familiar voice says behind him, “standing here and letting the others work for you.”

“Ha-ha!” Tormund whirls around and crushes his little crow to his chest. “Knew you couldn’t stay away for long.” When he releases Jon, he notices the full saddlebags on his horse and the rolled up sleeping skins fastened to the beast. “Deserting, are we?”

“Yeah,” Jon says with a sigh. “Got anything to drink?”

Tormund only has bark tea, but it’s better than nothing and they settle down in one of the repaired huts and let the warm drink and the fire heat up their bodies. Jon’s quiet, so Tormund’s quiet too. They’ve finished their tea and poured their cups full a second time when Jon starts talking.

“There are too many ghosts at Castle Black. They won’t leave me alone--and neither will the men. They insisted on making me Lord Commander. I don’t want it. I don’t want to lead ever again, but they won’t listen.”

“You’re not so different from us, you southerners. You follow the man too. The strength.”

“But that’s just it. What have I done to deserve it? Last time I was Lord Commander, my own men killed me. Then I led thousands of men to their death because I abandoned the plan when we fought Ramsay. My strategy for the battle against the Night King was shit. And then I marched my own men, before they’d even had a chance to heal, straight into a bleeding inferno because I was too afraid to stand up to Daenerys. Why should anyone follow me? I just keep failing and failing.” He shakes his unbound hair, the locks gleaming black from melted snowflakes. “I don’t want to lead. I don’t want the responsibility. I don’t want people looking at me when no one knows what to do. I don’t want any of it. I just want to be alone.”

“You’re not staying with us, then.”

“No.” He drinks his tea. “I’m going north. Far north. I need to be alone for a while. Just me, Ghost, my horse and, I don’t know, a lot of snow.” His mouth forms an unconvincing smile. “Just for a bit.”

“But what about your sister-cousin? Won’t her bed be cold without you?”

Jon turns so red he can’t have blood anywhere else in his whole body and that can’t be healthy. Not in this cold.

Tormund pats him in the shoulder. “Relax. I’ve known since Castle Black.”

Jon sputters. “There’s not been anything to know!”

Frowning, Tormund peers closely at him. “There hasn’t? Not even a bit of…” He mimics fondling a woman with two fingers.

“No! She was my sister!”

Tormund shrugs with a grunt. “I thought you southerners did that sort of thing.”

“It’s illegal. And a sin.”

“Is fucking your cousin illegal and a sin too?”

“No, but--”

Heaving a sigh, Jon hangs his head, his pretty little face so glum and sad Tormund moves over to the bench Jon sits on, wraps his arm around him, and tugs him closer.

“I know you’re banished, but crows can fly all over. Can’t they? For a visit now and then.”

“I shouldn’t. She’s better off without me. You don’t know southern politics.” He lets out a breath from loose lips. “Suppose I don’t either. Not the way she does. But I know enough to know my being there will only complicate things. She’ll get a better start to her rule without me there. I’ve made too many mistakes, Tormund. Broken too many vows. I vowed to protect Westeros from the Free Folk and I let you pass. I even lay with one of you before I betrayed her. I vowed to serve in the Night’s Watch and then I left. I vowed to protect the North and I gave it away. I vowed to serve Daenerys and I stabbed her. No one’s ever going to trust me again--and they shouldn’t.”

“I trust you.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not that smart.”

“Bah!” Tormund ruffles his hair and shoves him away with a playful push. “Maybe I’m just weak for your pretty face, eh?”

Jon grins at that and everything feels a little better. Good enough for smalltalk about how Whitetree’s progressing while they finish their tea. Then Tormund follows him to his horse, Ghost off in the distance with his nose on the ground, tracking some interesting scent.

“I hope you still come and visit us. I don’t want to have to worry about my little crow.”

“I’m not a crow. Not anymore.”

“You’ll always be a crow to me.” Tormund lays his hands on Jon’s shoulders. “And I say that with love.”

Jon laughs, his little shoulders bouncing beneath Tormund’s paws. “Yeah, I’ll visit. I’m not going to disappear on you. But I’m not returning to Castle Black. And I’m never going south of the Wall again.”

“Not even for her?”

Jon shakes his head. “It’s for her I’m staying away. I want her to find a husband. A good one. One who doesn’t turn everything he touches to shit. I want her to have some children and be happy. She won’t do that if she believes…”

He smiles then. A smile so sad and heartbroken Tormund pulls him in for another hug, worry curling uncomfortably around in his stomach like a nest of snakes. He’s too easy to worry about, this Jon Snow. But as Jon swings himself up in the saddle and rides deeper into the north, Tormund tells himself his old friend will be fine. Always manages to land on his feet, that one. More a shadowcat than a crow, really.

He has Ghost and his horse and all that snow.

He’ll be fine.

* * *

  
  


“My moonblood finally came,” Annika says, brushing last night’s knots out of Sansa’s hair. “I started getting worried and all--”

“Ain’t you a maid?” Grenna, the chambermaid, asks as she rips the linen from Sansa’s bed.

“Yeah, so? I bathed in the hot springs one night. What if a man had been in there before me? Sharing a bath with a man can put a babe in you, that’s what my ma says.”

“Your ma’s just scaring you, ain’t she. A man needs to spill inside you, everyone knows that. You can’t get with child if you’re a maid, Annie.”

Sansa watches her handmaiden through the mirror. “I thought you and Podrick… At the night of the feast?”

Annika blushes. “We did… other things, Your Grace. I want to save _that_ for my husband, see. If I ever get one.”

When Grenna points out the wildlings are coming at the end of the week to trade pelts for goats and that Annika can always ask someone to steal her--wouldn’t that be an adventure!--Sansa listens only with one ear. She likes it, though, the way these two always babble on and on in the mornings. As a child, surrounded by all her wild siblings, she often wished for peace and quiet. But now Winterfell is often too quiet for her liking. And although both girls were shy at first, they’ve grown comfortable these past few weeks and know their queen welcomes chitchat.

In the days following, more women celebrate the return of their moonblood. With all the recent stress and all that rationing, most at Winterfell have been late. According to Wolkan it’s entirely normal. Arya’s moonblood came while they were in King’s Landing, Sansa knows, and Brienne’s must’ve come by now too.

Sansa’s will come soon as well.

She’s not nauseated. She has no cravings. She’s not tired. She’s gained a little weight, that's true, but she's also been eating more. She's not sensitive to smells except perhaps once and that's not enough to mean anything. And she hasn’t thrown up. She merely needs more red meat in her diet and her moonblood will come.

She's sure of it.

* * *

  
  


He can’t stop dreaming of Drogon.

Every night, Jon sees the world through the dragon’s eyes almost as if he’s warging. But he’s had wolf dreams before. Not often, and never since his resurrection, but he remembers them vividly. He remembers feeling hot blood in his mouth after a kill. How good it tasted. He remembers all those scents and sounds and how the wolf in him rejoiced at it all.

This is not like that. He is not warging.

He is, every night, trapped in the body of a dragon burning villages and cities and homes. He sees himself burning King’s Landing, he sees himself burning Castle Black, he sees himself burning Winterfell, he sees himself finding Arya’s ship in the middle of the ocean and burning that too. He burns villages he’s never visited in lands he’s never seen. And every morning when he wakes it's with a need to run run run, far away from the dreams, for every time he stills they catch up with him and claw at his conscience. It’s like a fever, that need to run, as hot and consuming as dragonfire. And so he runs toward it. Runs toward that heat. To fight fire with fire.

* * *

  
  


Sansa has been queen for three months when Tormund comes to Winterfell along with a group of Free Folk carrying pelts and sour goat’s milk to trade for steel and some pigs. She’s unusually small--so much so that few people know--but to be safe she doesn’t hug him and keeps her cloak closed. And yet he knows. One look at her admittedly slightly rounder face and he knows. 

He shakes his head and says, “Well, that explains it,” and then pulls her into a hug anyway. He smells like the wild, like sweat and dirt and animal furs, but she finds she doesn’t mind at all, and allows herself to melt into his arms and feel little for a while.

“You haven’t found him, have you,” she asks once they’re inside in the warmth with freshly baked bread to dip in savory stew.

She knew Jon had left Castle Black, of course. And she knows sending her own men north of the Wall is pointless. Instead she sent a courier to Whitetree and asked Tormund to find Jon. To bring him home no matter what. 

That was weeks ago.

“No one has seen him for almost two months,” Tormund says. “I found no traces of him anywhere. I didn’t even find Ghost.” He pats her arm, then. “He said he’s not going south, but he might’ve gone farther north. Up into the mountains. Thenns used to live there. You can make a life.”

 _It doesn’t mean we have to worry_ , she reads between the lines. But Tormund’s eyes say something else entirely.

Sansa sends ravens to Bran, but he has yet to regain his full sight. She sends men to White Harbor to ask around, just in case, but they return to tell her they got mostly laughs. A man with brown hair and brown eyes and a brown beard wearing furs? Aye, they’ve seen him all right. They see about a hundred of him every day. But no one’s seen Ghost and no one’s noticed a sword with a white wolf pommel.

Still, he can have hidden it. Or he chose to ride somewhere.

She sends ravens all over Westeros. She has to have him home. If he knew, he’d _want_ to come home to her. To them.

None of the ravens she receives in return carry news of him.

She thinks about the Unsullied who disappeared, then. It’s so easy to disappear. Falling into a river and getting carried off to sea. Crashing into a ravine somewhere and wasting away at the bottom. Getting trapped in an avalanche and perishing beneath the heavy blanket of snow. Getting attacked by a bear or wolf, your remains eaten and your bones picked clean by carrion.

There are so many ways to die in the North.

But Jon is not dead. He’s not. He can’t be dead. Not now when they…

She takes to standing in their spot on the battlements daily, hoping she’ll see a dark rider approach with a pale companion.

When she, many days after the Free Folk have left, finally sees Ghost padding toward Winterfell she’s so relieved she bursts into tears and runs down to the courtyard to meet him.

The wolf practically bounds into her arms and she buries her face in fur that smells of winter and home. Then she stands there with Ghost by her side, just inside the gates, and watches a world of white for a speck of black. 

She waits and waits and waits. But the only black that comes is the dark of night. The ever silent Ghost noses at her belly with a whimper--and that noise snuffs out the hope inside her. 

“Jon is gone, isn’t he?” she whispers.

Ghost only looks at her with blood-red eyes and what she reads in the depths of them steals all her strength.

Sansa sinks like a stone in water to the snowy ground. People rush toward her. Strong arms lift her up and carry her inside and tuck her into bed. Someone calls for the maester and soon Wolkan is there with his warm, kind hands and warm, kind voice and all she wants is her mother. All she wants is to lean on her strength--but her mother is gone and now Sansa is the one who must be strong. She's the one who must have faith, who must believe. Jon will come back. The gods would not be this cruel. They’ve taken enough from her.

Every day she sends out men to look for him and walks to the godswood to pray for his return. And every evening she stands on the battlements and watches those men return without Jon.

Every day until Ghost bites her skirts and gives a tug, leading her back to the keep, back to the warmth of the hearth, as if to say it’s time to stop all this folly. As if to say: _if he were out there, I would've led you to him long ago._

But Ghost has remained steadfast by her side.

It’s time to look the truth in the face.

Jon is dead. And the babe growing in her belly will never know their father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting a happy ending, folks! Just a friendly reminder lol


	18. The Bastards of Winterfell

Gendry is gone too.

Cupping her stomach, Sansa sinks down in a chair and reads the raven scroll once more. Whispers say the Houses in the Stormlands and the Florents too were displeased with Daenerys’ stunt. Why should some uneducated bastard boy they’d never even heard of rule Storm’s End when they had Edric Storm? A bastard he might be, but he was fostered with Renly and his mother was highborn and Robert acknowledged the boy while Gendry could be anyone’s, for all they knew. And, for that matter, why should they care about the ruling of a mad woman who burned down an entire city and didn’t spend even an hour on the throne? What did she know of what the Stormlands need?

As there is no body to confirm a passing and a man with a warhammer has been sighted boarding a ship in the Weeping Town, Bran suspects Gendry realized someone wanted him gone and ran away before they could act on it. The Houses have asked Bran to legitimize Edric and he will, he writes, to settle the unrest before it grows into trouble.

The baby kicks against Sansa’s palm. Her own little bastard.

Once she realized her moonblood never would come, Wolkan discreetly suggested she should find herself a husband, but her baby will be safer without a man who might want the Queen’s firstborn gone so that _his_ firstborn becomes heir. No, she won’t marry. She will legitimize her child. There are no other Starks who would fight her son or daughter for Winterfell and the North. And if Maege Mormont’s children were rumored to be fathered by a bear, Sansa can claim her child was fathered by a wolf.

She still hasn’t told Bran. Technically, she hasn’t really told anyone. She’s too big now, though, to hide it anymore. Everyone at Winterfell knows. Soon word will reach him either way.

She dips her quill in ink and writes her reply.

An answer comes the following day--from Gilly. “ _A woman in childbed needs a hand to hold_ ,” she writes in a neat print and goes on to explain that she, little Sam, and baby Joy will take one of King Bran’s wheelhouses and travel to Winterfell in ample time for the birth. Clutching the scroll to her chest, Sansa weeps with relief. As much as she appreciates Wolkan and Annika, they are her subjects and servants--and she does need a hand to hold. The hand of someone who loves her as Sansa.

The weeks before their expected arrival move like a snail over gravel--even with all the work to be done. After hard green marble was found in one of the North’s quarries, she sent her steward to borrow money from the Iron Bank so they could not only expand the quarry but open mines too to dig for silver and gold. She’s also bought Myrish glass to repair the glass gardens and more Myrish eyes for the guards on the wall so they can keep a lookout for Drogon. 

There was a sighting in Dorne a month ago. The dragon had swept over the desert, dived down toward an oasis where travelers rested, grabbed a couple of luckily unmounted horses, and flown off again. No people were hurt. This time. At least Lysandor Martell has sent ravens all over Westeros and every keep is building Scorpions now. But that won’t protect settlements or farms or travelers.

She worries about the wheelhouse. It would be frighteningly easy for a dragon to grab it with its talons and fly away or even roast it right there on the road. The images haunt her nightly and she wakes often now, not just to make water but to flee the flames burning in her nightmares too.

Sometimes she wonders for how long they’ll have to live in fear.

(Sometimes she wonders whether Arya wakes up like this as well, wherever she is. Or even Jon. If he against all odds is alive somewhere.)

The day the wheelhouse finally rolls into Winterfell’s courtyard, Sansa once more weeps with relief. She hugs her dear friend Gilly and fawns over Joy Tarly, who at five months has dark brown eyes and golden yellow hair and the most adorably pudgy cheeks Sansa has ever seen. So preoccupied with the baby is she, she misses entirely that Gilly didn’t travel alone. It’s only when something tall blots out the bright winter sun that Sansa takes her eyes off Joy.

Brienne smiles almost shyly at her, her cheeks and ears kissed pink by the winter air. There’s something different about her face, though--and yet that difference is so familiar to Sansa for she sees it in her own reflection every morning. Her chin drops in a way she’s certain Septa Mordane would’ve shook her head at disapprovingly--and then her eyes drop too to confirm her assumption. Brienne is not wearing her armor or even Oathkeeper, but then how could she? She’s _huge_. Much bigger than Sansa even though they should be about as far along.

Overcome with too many emotions to name, Sansa laughs and cries and does her best to hug her old friend, their big bellies making it all rather awkward and difficult and entirely wonderful.

“Your Grace,” Brienne says, “I hope you don’t mind that we joined Gilly.”

_We?_

Discomfort curls in Sansa’s stomach. They’re due in about a month, which means Brienne will give birth at Winterfell too--and there’s only one person who’d insist on being there for the birth of Jaime Lannister’s child.

Sansa’s gaze shifts and there he is, head respectfully (ashamedly) bowed.

“Your Grace,” Tyrion says. “You look resplendent. But then few things are more beautiful than a pregnant woman.”

Slowly, Sansa turns her attention back to Brienne. “I don’t mind at all. I do wish you would’ve sent a raven. I don’t have chambers prepared.”

“But we did send a raven,” Gilly says. “Once Brienne and Tyrion decided to come, he went straight to the rookery and… Oh.”

Frowning, she cuts her gaze to Tyrion. He has the good sense to look appropriately chagrined.

“It must’ve gotten lost on the way,” he says. “Perhaps shot down by a hungry peasant?”

“Yes.” Sansa watches him coolly. “That must be it.”

While the servants prepare two more chambers, Sansa invites them to share a midday meal with her. Over butter-tossed turnips, honey-glazed ham, herb-crusted fish, and bread and oatcakes still warm from the oven, she learns that Brienne is expecting twins. And that she’s hoping to stay at Winterfell indefinitely with the children. She has Bran’s blessing, she says, and Sansa reads the hidden meaning easily. Everything is stable enough that Bran trusts Podrick to keep him protected.

“I won’t be able to serve you until I’ve recovered from the birth, of course, but--”

“Don’t worry about that,” Sansa says. “I would love to have you and your children here. And there’s no rush. I have many guards. You can be my trusted adviser for now.” Sansa smiles. “It would be my honor to have you on my council.”

Brienne smiles too, a wonderful kind of smile that might be small without but shines from within, and Sansa feels her own smile growing until she’s beaming. It’s the first time she’s felt happy, properly happy, since she accepted that Jon is gone forever. And not even Tyrion sitting by her table as if he’s a wanted guest instead of an interloper will dampen that joy.

* * *

  
  


According to Bran and Sam, there is reason to suspect the seasons will flow like they did in ancient times when a year saw winter, spring, summer, autumn, and winter again. If they’re right it’s a slow change. Although this winter has grown mild, snow still covers the North and tonight, when Brienne has gone into labor, a flurry of moonlit snowflakes illuminate the dark evening.

A few doors down, far away enough that Brienne's muffled cries blend with the roaring wind, sit Sansa and Tyrion in comfortable armchairs close to the hearth and wait for good news.

A week and a half they’ve been here and she’s still not used to seeing him in her home. He drinks her wine and eats her food and flirts with her maids. He hasn’t visited the brothel in winter town, though, and none of her maids have actually warmed his bed. The wine he drinks is even watered. He’s been nothing but civil, really, but she’s still avoided being alone with him until now. He’s not a man with whom one can keep harmless chitchat.

She’s barely finished that thought before he proves it to her.

“I hear a wolf sired your child.” Tyrion sits in the chair as if it’s his own, a little slouched and holding his cup of wine with both hands. “A Wolf King, I presume." He taps his finger against the bowl of the cup. "As do others."

With some effort, Sansa picks up her knitting project from the basket she’s kept close ever since she learned she was pregnant. For months she’s sewn and knitted whenever she’s had time for it. Clothes and blankets and tapestries, all for her little babe. Now, though, she’s knitting twin hats of softest bone-white goat’s wool for Brienne’s babies.

“Ever since I learned about your”--Tyrion gestures at her belly--“predicament, I have thought about Jon. How he acted around Daenerys. How he acted around you. The choices he made.” Tyrion swirls his wine but doesn’t sip. “Did you know he never told me he loved her. Not once. It took me a while to realize. He never denied it, of course. Like you, he was good at either saying nothing or simply deflecting.” He's silent for a beat, then: “It was you he loved all along, wasn’t it.”

Sansa keeps knitting without giving Tyrion as much as a glance, her face a perfect mask.

“You’re mad at me. You have to be. Sansa Stark is too well-mannered to be this rude to a guest.”

“I’m not mad,” she says. “I’ve learned the best thing to say to you is nothing. Because no matter what I say, you will use it to your advantage--and my disadvantage.”

“You think I betrayed you.”

“I know you betrayed me. From the moment you sent the scroll inviting Jon to Dragonstone you’ve kept betraying me. It was a trap. You kept him there for months. You sent him beyond the Wall to hunt wights. You--”

“He volunteered.”

“I was not finished,” she says in her lady mother’s voice and Tyrion is visibly chastened, his head bowed as he looks up at her through his fringe without properly meeting her eyes. “You helped that woman get Jon’s crown and come into my home and threaten me. And then, when I told you something that could’ve helped you get rid of her, you revealed it all to her. You put me and Jon in danger.”

“That’s not what--”

“Do you deny it? That’s rather bold of you.”

“Your Grace, you don’t have the whole truth.” He slides forward until one foot reaches the floor and puts the wine cup on the table between them. “If I tell you what happened on Dragonstone, will you listen?”

She takes her time wrapping up her work, laying it aside, and folding her hands over her stomach. “Will you tell the truth--or will you say whatever you need to present yourself as the person you want to be seen as rather than the person you are?”

His smile is downturned at the corners of his mouth, his head nodding. “I suppose I deserve that.” He sits down properly again but keeps his back straight as a needle. “I told Varys on the ship sailing south. He wanted to conspire against her. I did not. But I didn’t tell her, Sansa. In fact, I did nothing at all. I was… a coward. I admit it. I could bear the thought of losing her, but I did not want her blood on my own hands. Not after...”

As if his hands were stained with her blood nonetheless, he stares down at his palms. Then he shudders and wipes them on his breeches.

“She was, at times, a paranoid woman. Not quite like her father but, perhaps, had she lived as long…” He bends his lips mirthlessly. “When we first came to Dragonstone, the Unsullied did everything. They cleaned, they cooked, they even did the laundry. To let them focus on their actual duties, Varys had hired some winter town peasants to work in the castle. Daenerys didn’t trust them. She refused to eat and drink. Then, when her hunger and thirst grew too strong, she assigned a food taster. He ate a spoonful of her stew and dropped dead only a moment later. She assumed Jon was behind it. I don’t know why. He hadn’t been at Dragonstone, but she was exhausted and mourning and hungry and dehydrated. And the servants in the kitchen used to be his people. And she already suspected Jon had told you. She felt betrayed by him. I could’ve easily blamed him for all of it, Sansa, but I didn’t. I could’ve blamed you, but I didn’t. I told her you shared that secret with me so I could serve her better as her Hand. So I could protect her and Jon both.”

He pauses, as if to let his words land or give her a chance to respond. But Sansa only watches him with a calm she doesn’t feel and waits for him to continue.

“After she executed Varys she summoned Jon. I was not there. I still don’t know what happened or what was said. All I know is that their talk left her upset enough to storm out of the castle. When I realized she was heading toward Drogon, I followed.”

Tyrion leaves his seat, then, and takes two steps closer to Sansa, his brows tugged together. “She wanted to execute you for treason, Sansa. She wanted to fly straight to Winterfell and burn you in front of Sam and Bran to show them what happens to those who spread Jon’s secret. And I stopped her.”

Still Sansa says nothing, but Tyrion must be able to read the doubt in her eyes for he takes another step closer and speaks again with a voice full of feeling.

“It’s true. I had just seen her burn Varys--and I couldn’t bear the thought of her burning you too.” Tyrion shakes his head, his tortured gaze never leaving hers. “I reminded her why Rhaegal died. He was too tired to evade the Scorpion bolts. If she flew Drogon north and back again, he would be even more tired. Too tired to take King’s Landing. She could lose him too. That stopped her. And then, as we walked back inside, I told her a little lie. Well…” He nods at her stomach. “Something I, at the time, _believed_ was a lie. Not that I didn’t have my suspicions…”

Sansa slides her hands over her stomach until she’s wrapped her arms around it protectively.

“She couldn’t have them, you see. Children.” Tyrion looks sad then, and grabs his wine cup. Drinks this time. “If she believed you carried a Targaryen child, she wouldn’t hurt you. Or so I gambled.”

“She would have.”

He shrugs. “We’ll never know. Thank the gods.” He takes another sip. “Do you believe me, Sansa?”

Sansa watches him for a long while, long enough to make him squirm (even if he does his best to hide it). Then she says, “You were my friend once. I really was very fond of you. And I still feel for you. I do. It’s a flaw of mine. I can’t help but feel for others. Even when they’ve hurt me. And you have, Tyrion. You have hurt me. You have hurt my family. You have broken my trust. And I have learned to trust my head more than my heart. And my head tells me I should never believe a single word you say ever again. No matter how sincere you seem.”

He breathes out her name with that wounded puppy dog look of his; ignoring it, she resumes knitting and keeps her eyes on her work despite feeling his gaze on her as heavy and uncomfortable as wet burlap. Finally, he finds a book and occupies himself without bothering her until Gilly comes to tell them the twins are here.

Pale and with her sweat-slicked hair sticking to her forehead, Brienne lies propped up on a mound of pillows with a baby on each arm. They’re such tiny things, born a bit early, all wrinkly and red in their cocoons of linen. Tyrion approaches her like a child expecting to be beaten for the insolence; with the warm and tired smile of a new mother, Brienne nods her consent and Tyrion’s steps grow more confident until he’s by the bed. 

“Joanna came first,” she says, nodding at the little girl on her right arm. “And then came Jaime.”

Tyrion sucks in a wet, shuddering breath, and Sansa feels herself well up despite herself.

Brienne looks kindly at him. “Would you like to hold them, Uncle Tyrion?”

“Nothing would bring me more joy,” he whispers, smiling through his tears. He sits in a chair and Wolkan places the children, one after the other, in his arms. “Oh, they are perfect. Just like their father.” Tears slip from his eyes and then, as if he remembered there was another person involved, his head snaps up and he smiles at Brienne. “And their mother, of course. They will be magnificent with Brienne of Tarth as their mother, I have no doubt.”

As Tyrion coos over the twins as if nothing more precious has ever existed, Sansa sits down by Brienne’s bedside and holds her hand. “How are you?”

“Exhausted. But happy.” She lets her eyes drift close with a soft moan, her joy evident in the serene curve of her mouth. “I’ve never told anyone this," she murmurs, "but as a little girl all I wanted in the world was to marry a handsome lord and give him lots of children. Then I grew up and learned what a beast I was. No man would ever marry me. No one would want me to birth their children. What if they got daughters as monstrous as I was? The only thing I was good for was fighting. So I fought. Luckily, I love it. But that dream…” She blinks her eyes open; they glisten in the hearthlight. “I don’t think it ever quite died, no matter what I told myself. I know my situation is not perfect--and I would give anything to have Jaime here with us. But, all things considered, I am very, very happy, Your Grace.”

“I offered to marry her,” Tyrion says, eyes still stitched to the babies. “To claim them as my own. But she would not have me.”

Sansa and Brienne exchange a look, but Brienne keeps her tone polite and even as she says, “I never aimed to stay in King's Landing. Once King Bran was settled, I was always planning on returning to Winterfell. My place is here.” She holds her head a little higher. “With the Queen.”

“Don't worry, children. I will still protect you,” Tyrion tells the twins. “I will do everything in my power to ensure you will live long, happy lives--as Lannisters. If your mother approves?” When he looks at Brienne, hope shines in his eyes. “Little Joanna will of course, as the firstborn, be the heiress to Evenfall Hall. But little Jaime could become Lord of the Rock?”

Still with that exhausted smile on her face, Brienne says, “I appreciate it, Tyrion, but we can discuss this later. First I would like to rest--and have my children back.”

“Of course,” Tyrion says, glowing with enough pride a stranger would assume him the father.

He doesn’t stop gazing at the babies until the door is closed behind him and Sansa, and they find themselves alone in a torch-lit hallway--and even then his smile lingers.

Sansa wonders then whether this was what Bran needed Tyrion for: as the last Lannister of his line, he's the only one who can acknowledge the twins as Jaime Lannister’s children so that the powerful Houses in the Westerlands will accept them as such--and accept being ruled by one of them one day. Perhaps Bran needed Tyrion to protect them the way Brienne has protected Catelyn Stark’s children so fiercely and loyally. Perhaps this is his way of thanking her now that Mother is no longer with them to do it herself.

Bran must trust Tyrion, then. Trust him in that, at least. Sansa eyes him. Around Daenerys he so often cowered, but now he stands tall, the pride still radiating off him in a way so similar to Brienne’s own. Yes, he loves the twins already. But what is his love worth?

“Did you mean it?” Sansa asks. “You seemed sincere but…”

“That means nothing to you.” Tyrion gives her a surprisingly fond smile. “You know I loved Myrcella and Tommen. I even loved the unborn babe--"

"And yet you betrayed the woman carrying that babe."

Tyrion shakes his head. "I betrayed _Daenerys_. Jaime was apprehended on his way to King's Landing and I helped him escape. With Davos’ help I arranged safe passage for them to Pentos--you can ask him, if you don’t believe me--but they never made it. I failed. I didn’t stop Daenerys when I could’ve stopped her and the last of my family died because of it. If you don’t think I carry that guilt in my heart everyday--” He clenches his jaw, swallowing hard, and blinks away the wetness in his eyes. “I can’t have children, Sansa. Sometimes, when one frequents brothels too often... Well, there are diseases that thrive in such places and some of them leave you sterile. Or so the maesters tell me. Until Brienne started showing, I thought my House would end with me--and I have never been more happy for being wrong. I will make them my heirs, I will introduce them to the Houses loyal to the Lannisters, and I _will_ protect them, with everything I am. It will be my honor--and my penance.”

Sansa releases a breath, a hand moving habitually to her stomach to stroke the little life therein. “Brienne is very dear to me. She and her children are under my protection. If you do _anything_ \--”

“I will happily suffer whatever punishment you see fit. If something happens to them, I would not want to live.” Looking up at her with soft and misty eyes, Tyrion moves a little closer. “I was sorry to hear about Jon. He was a good man. He didn’t deserve to die so young--and you didn’t deserve to lose him. I’m sorry for the part I played in all this, Sansa. I truly am.”

She could have Tyrion tried now, she thinks. For his crimes against the realm. Jon _is_ gone. It wouldn't affect him. But, even though she'll never trust Tyrion with her own family, she does believe him when he says he’ll protect the twins and make them his heirs. And, despite it all, there’s still the smallest tendril of hope in her heart that in quiet moments whispers to her that Jon is alive. That she only needs to have faith and wait. That he'll turn up at Winterfell in time for the birth by some magic of the gods. She jolts every time she hears a door opening and closing or a corridor echoing with footsteps. She turns her head every time she sees dark curly hair in her peripheral or hears a deep Northern _aye_. But it’s never him. And one still winter’s morning, right at the cusp of dawn when the faintest sunlight glitters in the soft flakes floating down from the sky, Sansa gives birth while holding Gilly’s hand instead of Jon’s. 

When Wolkan lays the naked and wrinkly little creature upon her breast, Sansa sees a beautiful babe with with eyes that murky blue of most newborns, only a dusting of brown hair, and Jon’s nose and Jon’s lips and Jon’s ears. She sees Jon in every little feature.

“Your father would be so proud,” she whispers and places the softest kiss on the little nose. “And so happy. He would love you more than anything. Just like I do.”

A rosebud mouth searches for the breast and latches on. Sleepy eyes blink at her; her own are so full of tears the world around her blurs into the hazy gold of candlelight. Tucking the bundle close to her chest, Sansa closes her eyes and weeps from both the greatest joy in her life and the deepest sorrow.

“We will pray,” Gilly whispers, stroking Sansa’s hair. “We’ll pray that Jon is alive and that he’ll come home.”

Nodding, Sansa sniffles and opens her eyes. The shutters are open to let in fresh air into the hot and stuffy chamber. The slowly rising sun paints the sky in violets and pinks and molten gold, the colors of rebirth and new beginnings and hope.

 _Come home_ , _Jon_ , she thinks and sends that wish out into the world. _Come home to your family._

* * *

  
  
  
Feet dangling over black water, Jon sits in the harbor and watches ships glide into the lagoon to dock. Braavos is a damp, gray, and smelly place, but its sunrises never fail to take his breath away. They look like her, all copper and pink and gold. So beautiful the cracks in his heart ache.

Far behind him, deeper into the city, drunkards and gamblers stagger home from brothels and alehouses. Among them are the traveling companions he abandoned in a haste.

Tonight was the first time he returned to Braavos since first stepping off the boat barely a year ago. He didn’t want to visit a brothel; he never does. The thought of paying a woman to love him (or merely pleasure him) leaves him cold. But his friends insisted and he could do with some ale. They’d barely sat down and ordered their tankards before he noticed a man with black hair, blue eyes, and a familiar smile aimed at the half-naked woman on his lap.

Jon’s body moved on its own. One moment he sat at the table and the next his feet were pounding the cobblestone streets running along the canals, all the way down to the docks.

Did Arya ever run down those same streets? Did she sleep in them? Beg in them?

He pondered it last time as well. Barely a day he’d been in the city before he got pick-pocketed as the green country boy he was. Four silver stags and ten copper stars--that’s what he lost. A small sum perhaps, acquired after selling his horse in White Harbor, but as he had nothing else to sell but Longclaw and the clothes on his back, he had to earn it back. And so what should’ve been a day’s rest before traveling inland became two weeks of work as a stevedore.

At night, when dreams of fire and blood roused him from sleep, he’d wander a city that should be filled with echoes of a little sister, but Jon never learned the places where she slept and supped and struggled. He never learned much about her life after Ned died at all. Back then Jon told himself there was no time, but that was a lie, wasn’t it? 

The Wolf King always seemed to find time to visit the girl who guarded the sleeping wizard.

Not that it matters anymore. He's left the past behind.

He’ll never set foot in Westeros again.

A ship sailing toward Tyrosh signals for passengers to board. Jon shoulders his bag and gets to his feet.

Perhaps he should feel guilty for leaving his friends behind, but friend is a generous term for people who heard about his quest and decided to join him for the fame and the glory of it all--and for what gold they can earn by scavenging the corpse for talons and fangs and scales. Jon never cared about any of that. When he fled the North, he was driven by the powerful concoction of instinct and guilt and duty that always sends him running headfirst into danger in hopes of saving something.

He doesn’t feel guilty, though; he's had groups like that following him before. He knows how it ends. They always grow sick of this tedious work and drop off one by one while Jon keeps chasing after a creature who can put miles and miles behind him with only a few beats of his wings. Why prolong the inevitable? Jon did them a favor, really, and they won't be missed.

He’s become good at that. Not getting attached to people. They come into his life for a few weeks and he likes them just fine. But then they leave without leaving a permanent mark on his heart. If only he could learn how to scrub off the marks already stamped there by friends and family he left behind...

He’s learned other things, though, beneath this Essosi sun. He’s learned how to hide his coin, how to deal with the different climates, what food to eat and what food to avoid, how to quickly adhere to local customs, and how to get honest work (and less honest work). Honor might’ve mattered to Ned Stark, but Jon was never Ned Stark’s son and honor means shit. Honor doesn’t kill dragons.

Sometimes Jon arrives at a village too late and finds grieving parents or a farmer who no longer has a flock of sheep for Drogon snatches people and livestock alike. 

Other times his hunt takes him to cities Drogon merely flew over and Jon stays for a spell to work so he can keep traveling. Keep hunting this unpredictable beast who never stays anywhere for long enough that Jon can catch up to him.

If only he could summon him. Tug at a bond between them that never formed. He tries sometimes, anyway. When he’s all alone on a cliff overlooking the ocean or a sunbaked road stretching between two cities or a green slope leading to the Great Grass Sea, Jon settles down and closes his eyes and reaches out.

So far it’s amounted to nothing. 

It wasn’t a good plan, this. It was no plan at all. And yet he knows he’ll never stop--not until that beast is dead. He’ll chase him all his life, if that’s what it takes.

Almost a year after he saw Gendry in a brothel in Braavos, Jon finds himself in a different brothel--in Tolos, this time. He’s still not buying love. (He's still not learned how to erase those marks on his heart.) No, he overheard some men chatting about the dragon and followed them so he could eavesdrop.

He does that. By now his Valyrian is good enough he often can avoid striking up conversation to get information about the dragon or, more commonly, about a job. All he needs to do is keep his head down, blend in, and listen. And according to these men, the King of Meereen is offering three chests of gold to whoever slays the dragon. He might even fund the mission if he deems the champion worthy. Jon perks up at that. Traveling is expensive. Sleeping on the streets is dangerous enough he always sleeps in an inn if he’s near a city. Hunting and foraging for food isn’t as easy here as it is at home. Sometimes he buys a bunk aboard a ship to sail along a shoreline or across a bay or down a river. All to arrive in a place the dragon left days, sometimes even weeks, earlier.

Aye, he could use some funding. Honestly, he could use some help from someone who wants Drogon dead as much as he does. Whatever he's doing clearly isn't working.

The little he knows about Meereen wouldn’t fill a raven scroll. It used to be a slave city. Daenerys conquered it and ruled it before leaving it in the hands of a former lover whose name she never mentioned. A sellsword, if memory serves. Could he be the king? If so, Jon would have to be careful. If word of Daenerys’ killer has spread this far, the man might want his head.

Jon barely looks as himself anymore, though. He keeps his hair short, his face clean-shaven, and his tanned body clad in the same balloon-sleeved tunic, pleated breeches, and brown leather boots he trades his clothes for after he first left Braavos and found himself in warmer climates. And while he speaks Valyrian with an accent, few can place it. Most guess Dornish, for his dark eyes and dark hair. No one in Meereen needs to know he’s Jon Snow.

He uses the last of his coin to hitch a ride with a farmer bringing sacks of grain to the city. Once they're through the gates, Jon hops off the cart and sets out to find whatever palace or pyramid in which the king resides.

Meereen is a beautiful place with clean streets, music and laughter streaming out from alehouses, inns, and taverns, berry vines framing open windows, old men and women hunched over games of cyvasse shaded by awnings, young women walking arm in arm and whispering about the men they pass, and children playing catch and splashing in fountains.

He remembers the pretty lady with the red hair, then. He always does whenever he walks through an Essosi city. He remembers her whispering so sweetly that they should run away together. Open a little shop. It’s far too easy picturing her there with her red hair and golden freckles glowing in the sun. It’s far too easy picturing her with a belly round with child and a red-haired toddler walking beside her, his little hand holding her hand as he splashes in the fountain too, their smiles caught in a thousand sunlit droplets. They would call him Robb or Eddard without knowing why, only that it felt right. And then the girl would come and no other name than Arya would fit.

Jon has imagined a similar picture far too often. While his human companions come and go, the dreams of his red-haired lady remain with him always. 

The wise thing would be to forget about Sansa. To let go of this dream--but it’s the most cherished thing he has. It’s what keeps him warm at night and keeps him company on long travels. It’s what keeps him going when he wants to give up. Because he does want to give up, sometimes. On bad days when he’s so weary he wants to lie down in the sand or the grass or the cobblestone street and just _rest_ , and the thought of saving innocents isn’t enough, he thinks of Sansa.

He thinks of Winterfell in flames. Of Castle Black and Whitetree and King’s Landing and Arya’s ship out there on uncharted waters. That always fills him with the strength he needs to soldier on.

Two guards patrolling the streets look at him sideways. Such a furtive thing he almost missed it. But he is still a soldier, a fighter, a wolf, his instincts prickling like raised hackles. And those guards, their posture, their precise movements--

They attack before he can finish that thought and Jon finds himself dragged through the streets, his arms pinned behind his back. Neither guard says a word and when he asks them where they’re taking him, they act as if they can’t hear him. They stop outside a building that’s beautiful, aye, because most buildings in Meereen are beautiful with their berry-heavy vines, sand-colored stones, and cupped blue ceilings, but there’s nothing remarkable about it. And yet the guards, who now finally speak, tell him he’s to see their leader: King Marselen of Meereen.

After removing Longclaw from him, they shove him through the doorway and steer him across two well-guarded rooms until they reach large doors leading out onto a small terrace overlooking the lower levels of the city. And there, by a desk full of parchment that flap gently in the breeze beneath bronze paperweights shaped like birds, sits the King of Meereen in a plain dark gray tunic and no crown upon his head.

Frowning, he looks up at them and opens his mouth as if to speak. But then his eyes land on Jon and he closes his mouth again, lays down his quill, and leans back in his chair with the unreadable face of a statue.

“Jon Snow. I thought I said I wished to never see you again. And here you are. In my city.”

“Yeah, well.” Jon shrugs. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“You do not disappoint.” A slow smile spreads across Grey Worm’s face. “You do not disappoint at all.”


	19. New Beginnings

Jon’s stomach rumbles. He’s sitting stiffly in his seat, a table full of food and unresolved business standing between him and Grey Worm. Jon hasn’t taken his eyes off him since he stepped out on the terrace. When a serving woman wrapped in beautiful blue fabrics fills their mugs with water and their glass cups with wine, he even leans his head to the side so he can keep Grey Worm in his line of vision. Grey Worm, on the other hand, looks at ease, his shoulders relaxed and his hands already busy with filling his plate. He even looks up at the serving woman and thanks her with a smile.

It’s the second smile Jon has seen him deliver today when Grey Worm only ever smiled around Missandei.

It’s almost unnerving, as if someone else is wearing Grey Worm’s face. _Are you a Faceless Man?_ Jon thinks, but Grey Worm knew him. The moment he saw Jon, he knew him. And Jon’s been around him long enough to know too. No, not a Faceless Man. Just a new man.

Grey Worm pops a fig into his mouth and smears soft cheese on a slice of bread, nodding at Jon as if to encourage him to dig in too. His stomach rumbles again. 

Grey Worm called him guest. He ordered his men to unhand Jon, give him back his sword, have refreshments served, and to treat Jon as a _guest_ \--all in the Common Tongue too. But Jon’s heard that before. To Daenerys and her followers guest was just another word for prisoner.

Daenerys didn’t allow him to keep Longclaw, though, and she never invited him to eat at her table. He and Davos were served their meals in their chambers.

“I have heard of a man chasing Drogon,” Grey Worm says. “It is you?”

Jon nods, eyeing his water mug. After the long journey he’s parched.

“There is no poison in the food or the drink.” Grey Worm takes a bite off the bread and washes it down with wine as if to prove it. “Eat. Drink.” He gestures at Jon and the food and the ewers. “Drogon is terrorizing the villages and farms surrounding the city and we are dependent on their produce and meat. I need your help to kill him so I cannot kill you.”

Jon plucks a peach and a slice of bread from the platters. Sips water carefully. When it tastes just like water should, he fills his mouth.

“After we have killed Drogon, though, I will kill you.”

Jon stills, lips closed around the mouthful of water he’s yet to swallow.

“Relax, Jon Snow.“ Grey Worm grins. “It was a joke.”

Jon swallows the water with a loud enough gulp they must hear it in the streets below. 

Has he ever seen Grey Worm grin before? A real grin, teasing and wide like a big brother pleased with his japes--and that is what makes it so unnerving. Jon can handle the stoic warrior Grey Worm, but this King Marselen...

“I will not kill you. Not now. Not later.” Grey Worm looks into his eyes. “Unless you try to kill me.”

“I have no intention of killing anyone but Drogon.”

“Good,” Grey Worm says and, as they continue to eat and drink, tells Jon about their dealings with the mighty black dragon.

Drogon knows Scorpions and avoids cities with them, which had Grey Worm build Scorpions for the settlements and farms too. But they don’t always have the men to man them and if Drogon finds one unmanned, he burns it and anything surrounding it. People do get shots in sometimes, though, but most of the time those bolts are as effective as wooden swords against plate armor. Once or twice, a bolt has hit him but never well enough to do much harm. A torn wing heals and soon _Murgho Zobri_ fills the skies again.

That’s what they call him here. The Black Death.

“So how do we stop him?” Jon asks. “I’ve been tracking him for a few years. He never stays anywhere for long enough.”

“He has a lair.” 

“A lair? They didn’t have lairs before, did they?”

“No. But he has now. Come.”

They move into the building and up the stairs to what must be his proper office, considering the large desk, shelves full of books and scrolls, and a large map of the known world hanging on the wall. 

“About six months ago my men found a lair here.” Grey Worm points at a spot in the eastern part of the Great Sand Sea. “They waited for a week before he showed. Only half of the group returned. Our bolts are not enough. He is too strong, too fast, too clever. His scales are too thick. We need someone who can come close. Someone he trusts."

“I’m not sure he trusts me.”

“You killed his mother. He did not kill you. He trusts you. It will take a few months to travel to the lair. Then we have to wait. I cannot promise it will be swift and I cannot promise we will return. Are you with us?”

Jon nods. “I’m with you.”

“Good. I need to make arrangements. We leave in a week. Until then you are my guest. You are free to come and go as you like.”

There’s that word again. _Guest._

He could wander Dragonstone freely too--and everywhere he walked, guards followed to make sure he didn’t leave the island or find some weapon somewhere. One day when the ocean lay still and quiet like a pale blue blanket he picked up a flat piece of stone to skip across the surface. But he’d barely pulled back his arm and aimed before a guard was there, holding his hand out and expecting Jon to give him the stone.

Jon touches the hilt of Longclaw. Grey Worm did let him keep it. And he does need him...

Grey Worm regards him. “You would prefer an inn? I will pay.”

“Does it matter? You’ll keep an eye on me either way, won’t you?”

“I am not Tyrion. I do not play tricks. If I say guest, you are guest.”

“I wouldn’t mind an inn.”

Grey Worm nods. “Follow me.”

The inn lies three blocks away in a sandstone building with flower pots and wind chimes hanging from the eaves. It’s run by three sisters who look so different they can’t be sisters by blood. Their only similarity is that they’re all incredibly beautiful. The youngest, Xanna, has dark skin, dark hair, and dark eyes that light up with a bright smile when she sees them.

 _No_ , Jon thinks when he notices her sisters exchanging looks and making themselves busy so that Xanna is the one who gets to talk to them, _her smile is not for_ us _. It’s for Grey Worm._

As they walked here Jon noticed a difference in him. While the guards he’s seen so far have that telltale Unsullied posture and movements, Grey Worm walked with an ease his soldier self never had--and with a confidence too. Being king suits him. When he strolls down the streets of Meereen, one can tell it’s his city and that he’s proud of it too. The people they passed smiled at him. Children waved. And Grey Worm happily smiled back at them, teeth white and eyes brown and as warm as the sun above.

Now, though, that confidence and ease are gone. As he and Xanna talk, he shifts restlessly, ducks his head a lot, and barely keeps eye contact with her--but when he does, the gentlest of smiles plays in the corners of his mouth. He looks like a green boy talking to the prettiest maiden in the village. And when little feet slap against the flagstones and a toddler with brown skin and a cloud of tawny hair runs across the room shouting, “Mashen!” and throws himself at Grey Worm, Grey Worm scoops him up as if he’s done it a hundred times before. They chat a bit in Valyrian, he and the boy, while Xanna watches them with such tenderness Jon knows the child is hers (and that she wishes Grey Worm would become his father).

An age-old longing twists Jon's heart, just a bit. It's never sharp anymore, that pain, but it never truly goes away either. Breathing in and out slowly, he ignores the sensation before it weakens his defenses enough to let his mind wander to harmful places. He can’t afford it, always ends up brooding for days or searching for comfort in the bottom of a tankard. Once he got so drunk he fell asleep in an alley and woke up just in time to fight off someone looking to steal Longclaw.

He’s shown to his chamber, given a key, and told Xanna will take good care of him, as he is the King’s old friend.

Jon has to stifle a laugh at that. Aye, they’re the best of friends, him and Grey Worm.

Later that evening, once Grey Worm has left and Jon has washed the road off him and changed into the only other set of clothes he owns while the ones he wore have gotten picked up by Xanna’s sister to be washed, Xanna and her boy join Jon for supper. She speaks the Common Tongue about as well as he speaks Valyrian and so they manage a surprisingly well-flowing conversation by mixing the languages and using gestures too.

It doesn’t take long for her to ask him about that--the old friend bit--and Jon knows that’s why she chose to sup with him instead of her sisters or one of the other guests.

Jon’s stumped. What’s he supposed to say? Aye, I killed the queen Grey Worm loved. The queen he and Xanna and all the people of Meereen chose to rule them. If word spreads, he might not live long enough to leave on this quest after all.

“We fought in two wars together,” he says instead. “And my uncle always said the best friendships are forged on the battlefield.”

“Wars in Westeros? Then you knew her? Daenerys Targaryen.”

Jon swallows. “I knew her.”

Xanna’s big brown eyes roam over his face. She looks at Longclaw. Back at his face. “You’re the Wolf King. The man who slayed the Dragon Queen.”

Jon lays down his fork and sits straighter, reflexively sweeping his eyes over the room where he and the other guests eat. But as he moves his hand from the table to rest on his lap so he can draw his sword if needed, Xanna stops his movement by laying her own hand over his.

“Calm,” she says. “No one here wants your head. We know what she was.” Xanna removes her hand. Her son, who’s sitting on her lap, picks up strips of meat from her plate and gnaws happily. “When she came here, I was a kitchen slave. She promised us a better life, but she did not keep her promise. She sat in her pyramid like any other master. Then she left Meereen to her lover.” Xanna’s lips curl with disdain. “He did not like ruling and sold Meereen back to the masters. After that everything got worse. My new master liked the look of me and made me a bed slave. My sisters were his bed slaves too--and we were considered lucky.”

When Jon’s eyes flit involuntarily to the boy, Xanna holds her son closer and says, “I love my son.”

Jon smiles. “He’s a beautiful boy.”

“Yes. And he is free. Thanks to Marselen. When he and the Unsullied returned to Meereen, we did not trust him. He was not one of us. He was _hers_. A traitor. He asked us to rise up against the masters again but we did not want to. We had been lied to before and we did not want things to get even worse. ‘But,’ he said, ‘it will be different this time. I am different.’ He said Mhysa was a master. That, this time, he would round up all the masters and execute them. This time, Meereen would be _ours_. We would be ruled by our own. He spoke with passion and we believed him. We believed he would keep his promises and we rose up. He kept his promises. The masters are gone. And Meereen is ours. A council of twenty freedmen and women rule our city and we call Marselen our king with pride.”

As she spoke, passion strengthened her voice into a powerful timbre and drew attention to their table. Now one of the guests raises his cup in the air and says, “Long live King Marselen!” and several of the guests join him, ale and wine sloshing over the rims of their tankards and cups as they cheer in honor of their king.

Xanna waits for the cheers to die down and for the guests to return to their eating before she leans over the table and says, in a soft low voice, “This quest of yours? I do not want him to go, but I know he will. Protect him, Jon Snow. Bring him back safe and sound. Meereen needs him. _I_ need him.”

“I think he can take care of himself,” Jon says with a chuckle. “I’ve seen him fight.”

Xanna shakes her head. “Murgho Zobri is the most dangerous beast in the world and you are the only one left with dragon blood. Protect Marselen.”

“I’ll do everything I can to make sure he returns to Meereen,” Jon says, earning himself a warm, relieved smile from Xanna. “I promise.”

It’s an easy promise to make too. Grey Worm will be fine. Grey Worm will return home. It’s himself Jon is unsure of. He doesn’t have a home or a life waiting for him. He doesn’t have a good woman and a little boy worrying about him and longing for his return.

Once Drogon is dead and Grey Worm has returned to Meereen, what will Jon do? What will be the point of him?

What will he live for?

* * *

The orchardist hands Sansa a shovel. The soil has already been loosened for her, the blade sinking like a spoon into warm pie. When she sets her foot on the step and pushes it in deeper, the people around her erupt into cheers and applause. Smiling, she makes a great show out of wiping her forehead. The people hoot and laugh, clapping anew. Then, just because it delights them so, she digs the entire planting hole herself even though there’s a worker behind her prepared to take over and, with the help and guidance of the orchardist, plants the tree too.

“Will Her Grace plant all the trees herself?” he asks with a twinkle in his gray eyes.

“No.” Beaming, she hands him back the shovel. “I will leave that to the experts.”

When she steps back, her little wolf toddles toward her with a bright, “Mama!” Mitten-clad hands reach for her. “Well done! Well done!”

She hugs her little wolf tightly and presses kisses to cheeks cool and rosy from autumn winds. Joanna and Jaime stand pressed to their mother’s legs, hugging one knee each as they wait for their friend to be let down on the ground again so they can play with Joy and Little Sam among the slender apple trees waiting to find new homes in northern soil. Gilly and the children arrived a couple of days ago and are staying until Sansa’s nameday celebration in three weeks--and perhaps even longer, if Sansa’s lucky. Winterfell is always so wonderfully noisy when they visit.

While Gilly minds the children with the help of Septa Wenda, Brienne and Sansa move to the crowd. There she shakes hands, speaks with young and old, hugs babies, praises children, and receives gifts by breathless villagers, a wooden wolf carved by an old man, a scarf knitted by a young mother, a wreath of yellow birch leaves woven by two children and which she wears as if it were a crown.

They take the long way home, following rutways across fields and past copses just to watch the bright pops of yellow and orange and red among all that green foliage. They point at different trees and tell the children their names, a birch, an oak, a beech, a--

“Weirwood!” Little Sam shouts as they pass a slender tree full of reddening leaves.

“Close but no. That's a maple.”

They point at animals too. A few deer grazing at the seam of a wood. A squirrel scampering up a tree trunk. A hare shooting across the road. A flock of sheep following a boy home to a small farm where a woman sits on a log stool on the stoop, carding wool. Another child empties a bucket of pigwash into the trough in the pigpen while two young men work the fields with their scythes.

Their hair is longer, their chins are covered by beards, and they wear northern clothes, but Sansa remembers their faces. She remembers for she let them go out in the cold and unknown winter world just to appease the Dragon Queen when she knew they would not return.

Sansa orders the carriage to stop and gets out, Brienne and two guards following behind. The old woman springs to her feet and, with a grimace, presses her hand to her back.

“Your Grace,” she says, curtsying so deeply Sansa fears she won’t be able to stand again, but the old woman manages. “Lovely autumn afternoon we’re having, ain’t it? So mild for the season. My nephews could barely wait to get started this morning and all.”

“Your _nephews_.”

The old woman juts her chin in the air. “That’s Nick and Alyn, that. My brother’s boys.”

Sansa glances at the men. “I’d like to speak with Nick and Alyn.”

The old woman’s eyes dart between Sansa and the Unsullied. She twists her apron in her hands. “If it please Your Grace,” she murmurs and curtsies again.

They speak with a northern burr. Yes, there's an Essosi lilt to it but it's decidedly northern. That’s what surprises Sansa the most. Not that two of the missing Unsullied turned up after three years. Not that an old woman found them and nursed them back to health. Not that they decided to stay with her and become her family for she lost her own in the wars. But that these young men, when they tell Sansa with a nervous tremor in their voices that they like it here, that they want to stay, that, aye (aye!) they’re getting wages, speak with a northern burr.

“I know we’re deserters and all,” Nick says, “but we beg for Your Grace's mercy.”

“I’m not going to punish you. Daenerys is dead. Grey Worm said you were free to do whatever you wanted. That includes returning home. If that’s what you want, I will give you the gold you need for your travels.”

“This _is_ home, Your Grace,” Nick says. “Greta took us in. Us and the children. Orphans, they are. The Night King killed most of their village. They fled and now we are family. The five of us.”

“We have a cat, Your Grace.” Alyn beams. “He hunts for mice and that. In the evenings he sits on our laps and purrs.”

“She says the farm’s ours when she passes, Greta does. As long as we keep taking care of the children. And we will.” Nick bows his head, solemn. “We swear it, Your Grace.”

They stand closely together, Nick and Alyn. Close like two nervous children fearing punishment--or close like lovers who are desperate to stay together in this new life they’ve made. Sansa remembers then that Arya mentioned some Unsullied being sweet on one another, but Sansa never learned who she meant. But then their army was thousands of men strong. There could’ve been plenty of couples among them. And they do look like it. A couple. Fathers to the orphans. A family found.

This is what happens in war. She’s helped many orphans find new families herself, some even staying at Winterfell, and the Free Folk have done the same with their own. She never imagined this, though. Two men lost in the snow turning up like this. A fresh start under new names, free from the burden of their former lives.

And no one suspected a thing.

Everyone assumed them dead.

There are so many ways to die in the North. 

It’s so easy to disappear--and turn up alive, years later.

When Sansa returns to the carriage, she can barely meet Gilly’s eyes, doesn’t want to see hope shining in them. Out of everyone in Sansa’s life, Gilly and Sam are the only ones who’ve never stopped believing Jon is alive somewhere. Sometimes Sansa loves them for it. Other times their bright-eyed optimism claws at her heart and fills the furrows with dark, acrid grief for Jon is dead. 

She has looked the truth in the face. She has accepted it. She has mourned. She still has bad days--and she probably will for a long time--but today is not a bad day. No, today is wonderful! Her favorite kind of day. And when she closes her eyes and thinks about the willowy apple trees and the children chasing one another and Ghost loping after them and her people clapping and smiling, their faces pink with health, she feels her own smile returning. 

When they return to Winterfell in the late afternoon, her cheeks ache with it. The children nearly fall asleep at the supper table; the three mothers have to carry them to bed and then they do fall asleep, their heads resting on shoulders and their little snores filling the hallways. Once they’re all safely tucked into their beds, Sansa, Gilly, and Brienne retire to Sansa’s solar. 

It used to be Jon’s chamber, this room. But after she had his things packed into trunks and the space cleaned out, she had a door installed in the wall between the chambers and made both her own. Now it has a desk, a round table with four comfortable chairs for company, a rocking chair for knitting or reading or nursing or sewing, a medium-sized loom, and an easel where she sketches new tapestry designs. 

While her friends settle down by the table and a servant brings wine and sweets, Sansa goes to her desk first for her ritual.

On her first nameday as queen, Yohn Royce gave her a beautiful leather-bound notebook embossed with two crossed swords flanked by an S on either side, and with a crowned direwolf above, and a trout beneath. She takes it out of the top drawer and flips the pages to her list and, like so many times before, runs her fingertip down the page, the parchment rasping lightly under her nail.

Between _observatory in the broken tower_ and _cobblestone road through the winter town,_ her finger stops.

_Winterfell apple orchard._

She dips the quill into ink and strikes it off the list with a satisfied sigh, the garnets on her golden bracelet glowing red in the candlelight.

The loveliest sensation always fills her when she does this. One she had no way of describing until two crates of a new sort of wine arrived at Winterfell a couple of months ago. A gift from Lysandor Martell’s finest vineyard, sweet and fresh and, to Sansa's surprise, bubbly. When the steward had chilled the wine, pulled the cork, and poured it into a glass and she noticed bubbles filling the liquid like a thousand tiny pearls of gold, Sansa knew that was how she felt whenever she started a projected or completed one. As if someone poured her full of fizzing golden wine.

They cork a bottle open now and enjoy it with lemon cakes freshly baked, the powdered sugar melting on their tongues. 

“I’m so happy you were here for this,” Sansa tells Gilly. “And the children! It’s all they’ve talked about for weeks. They had so much fun today."

“The first thing Jaime said to me when he woke up this morning was, ‘Little Sam?’ Not even a good morning!” Brienne laughs and sips her wine. “He _adores_ him.”

Gilly licks sugar off her thumb and rests her hands on her belly. Her bump is small, still. She’s only four months along with baby number three.

“That’s good,” she says, slowly. “We love it here.”

She doesn’t look happy when she says it, though, nor does she meet their eyes. Sansa and Brienne exchange worried glances, but remain silent as they wait for Gilly to share whatever’s eating her.

“I’m not sure I want to leave,” Gilly whispers. “I know it’s awful of me. Becoming a maester is important to Sam, but whenever I think about being stuck in the Citadel with Joy and Little Sam and a newborn, I burst into tears. I hate it there. I _hate_ it--and they hate us. We’re only tolerated if we’re quiet and don’t touch anything. Little Sam’s fine. He’s such a calm boy, but Joy is a wild little thing. She needs a place like this, full of people and animals, where she can run around. So maybe it’s not awful of me?” She looks at them, helpless. “The Citadel's not good for the children. It’s not. And Oldtown’s not much better. It’s too big and noisy and too hot in the summer and everyone knows I don’t belong. They all look at me sideways. It’s not like that here. I want to stay.”

“We’d love to have you,” Sansa says, taking her friend’s hand. “But what about Big Sam?” 

Gilly sniffles, shrugs. “When he asked them if he could come here for the celebration, they said, yeah, you can go. But remember that there are lots of men who take their education seriously. Who actually want to forge their links. Who’d make a better Grand Maester one day.” She twists her mouth and sniffs again. “So he stayed. And I don’t understand it. I don’t. Bran’s a nice boy and a good king. But he’s not family. _Jon_ is Sam’s brother. So his place is here, with Jon’s wife and child now that Jon can’t be here himself. That’s how family works. When one of my sisters got sick, the rest of us took care of her and her children and her chores. That’s how it works. Who cares about becoming a Grand Maester. We should be _here_ \--at least until Jon comes back.”

Pressing her lips into a thin line, Brienne ducks her head. 

“Sam has his own dreams,” Sansa says. “I can’t expect him to give that up just to take care of me. Besides, I have lots of people taking care of me. I’m fine.”

“They’re stupid dreams,” Gilly mutters. “They say it’ll take him a decade to earn his first title properly. King Bran can’t do anything about it. Rules are rules. And that’s to become a maester! Just a maester. Nothing grand about it.” She strokes her belly, shaking her head. “I want more from life than being cooped up in Sam’s chamber with three children for _decades_.”

“Then stay.” Sansa squeezes Gilly’s hand. “For as long as you like.”

“Thank you.” Gilly wipes at her eyes. “I’m going to send him a raven right now.” 

She pushes herself to her feet, nicks a lemon cake from the platter, and heads toward the door. When she opens it, Tormund stands outside with his fist in the air as if on the verge of knocking. He looks befuddled for a beat. But then he grins, pretending to knock at the air, and takes one big step into the chamber. 

“Ha-ha! Another little one!” He pulls Gilly in for a bear hug. “When’s this one due?”

“Early spring or so. If the seasons keep behaving.”

“That Sam.” Tormund barks out a laugh. “Who would’ve thought.” He swans over to Sansa, tugs her out of the chair, and gives her a bear hug too, enveloping her in the scent of the wild. Brienne looks away, sipping wine. Glancing at her, Tormund drags a hand through his hair and joggles his shoulders.

“You’re here early,” Sansa says. “I didn’t expect you until my nameday feast.”

“Yeah, well...” He shoots her a grin. “You’ve got room, don’t you? Queen of a big castle.”

“Yes, of course. You’re welcome to stay in your usual room.”

He grunts, nodding, and peers into her wine cup. “What’s this fancy shit?"”

“It’s a new kind of wine from Dorne. It has bubbles."

" _Bubbles_." He sticks his nose into her cup and breathes in deeply. Then he takes a mouthful of wine, swishes it around, and swallows it loudly. “Ah!” He nods, inspecting the glass before tipping his head back and draining the cup, his throat bobbing with swallows. “Not bad. It tickles my nose."

“Really? You liked it?” Sansa asks.

He shrugs, throwing Brienne another not particularly discreet glance. “Even I like trying new things every once in a while. And this was sweeter than a wom--” He freezes like that, lips pursed around a word he doesn’t complete. “Sweeter than these little cakes you love so much.” He waves a finger at the platter before shoving a cake into his mouth, powdered sugar dusting his beard. “Are you celebrating?”

“Yes. We finally started planting the first trees of Winterfell’s very own apple orchard.”

Sansa presses her hands together, delighted, and tells him about the type of tree she bought (one suited for colder climates and producing juicy, crispy, and tart apples), and the things she hopes they’ll be able to produce once the trees bear fruit. She’s especially looking forward to apple cider, as the orchardist promised her this strain was especially appropriate for a rich musty cider.

“And then, on the way home,” she says and she can feel Brienne tensing up without even looking at her, “we found the missing Unsullied. Two of them, at least. They’ve been here all along. On a farm an hour from here.”

“Huh.” Tormund eyes the last lemon cake but waits for Sansa’s nod of approval before shoving that one into his mouth too. “So now you think Jon’s out there somewhere. Working on a farm or something. That's what you're getting at, eh.”

“Gilly certainly does,” Brienne says. “But then she’s always going on and on about how he’ll return one day.” She leans forward with a tired exhale. “Tormund, you were the last person to see him alive. Do you think it’s even remotely possible he’s still out there?”

Tormund scratches his jaw. “He told me he wouldn’t disappear on me. And he said he’d never go south of the Wall again. If it hadn’t been for Ghost returning, I’d say he was up there, hiding in the snow, but…” Tormund sighs, shaking his head. “I want to believe he’s alive, I really do, but I think our little crow has flown to those seven heavens you southerners believe in.” He smiles sadly at Sansa and pats her knee. “Sorry Mama Wolf.”

“You should tell Gilly that,” Brienne says. “She might listen to you. I understand she’s only looking to help, but it’s not helpful, is it? To keep hope alive when…” She trails off when her eyes land on Sansa’s face, the irritation melting off her to reveal regret and kindness. “I’m sorry, Your Grace.”

“It’s fine. I accepted a long time ago that Jon is gone.”

“He’s not, though.” Tormund’s smile brightens. “There’s a little version of him running around these halls. I’ve seen it with my own two eyes.”

He always points that out, Tormund. How similar they are, Papa Wolf and Baby Wolf, as he likes to call them, and keeps saying things like, “Oh, that’s the face Jon makes when he’s frustrated. Jon’s shoulders bounce like that when he laughs! Look at that little bottom lip! Just as grumpy as Jon!” And all Sansa can think is: how can a child have the same mannerism and expressions of someone they’ve never even met? 

Is it even possible? Or are they all seeing what they want to see.

Everyone tells her father and child look so alike and she almost wants to laugh at her old self, who believed no one would remember those short days when people believed the Wolf King and the Wolf Queen were married. While the Queen in the North’s firstborn is widely known to have been fathered by a wolf, everyone says it with a wink and a grin. “Oh, we all knew,” they say now when she carries the evidence of her and Jon’s union on her hip. “We knew _all_ along.”

“So,” Tormund says now, drawing out the word. Another quick glance in Brienne’s direction before looking back at Sansa. “Got a moment? I want a word.” He clears his throat. “Alone.”

“I’ll help Gilly with that raven,” Brienne says. 

Tormund doesn’t try pulling her in for a hug as she passes. She nods to him with a polite smile and touches his shoulder. They’ve become better friends these past few years. They often spar and he never accosts her anymore (even if anyone can see he’s still mad about her). She even allows him to play with the twins for they, just like all the children, adore their big uncle Tormund who always has the energy to let them clamber all over him, toss them in the air, or chase after them until they shriek hysterically with laughter.

Once Brienne has left, Tormund fills a chair like a big pile of patchwork furs topped with wild red hair. He grabs the bottle and necks it, smacking his lips as he puts the empty bottle back on the table. Then he tucks his chin and lets out a loud burp.

"Sorry." He grins. "The bubbles needed to come out."

"What did you want to discuss?"

When he leans forward, eyes locked with Sansa’s, she expects him to ask for her help mediating between two clans or between the Free Folk and a lord. Perhaps one of his has stolen one of hers, even though they’ve promised they won’t do that anymore. But old traditions are difficult to break. He comes to Winterfell every other month or so, always bringing with him pelts and meat of bear or shadowcat, sour goat’s milk, and herbs foraged now that the seasons come and go throughout the year. All so he can trade for steel or fancy elixirs, as he calls Wolkan’s medicines, or other useful things. And, every so often, he asks for advice regarding something political too.

Once he came to tell her they’d seen Drogon.

It was the second time he’d been sighted north of the Neck. He must’ve flown over the North during the night, his black form melting into the blacker sky. According to eye witnesses, he’d sat on the Wall for a spell before flying off again.

The first time happened a year into her rule. A winter town child saw him in the distance and darted toward the castle, hollering louder than a spring storm. The guards on the wall, who’d grown less and less vigilant with every peaceful month, scrambled to the Scorpions. But Drogon never came within shooting range. He merely soared over the fields for a few hours.

They didn’t sleep that night, Sansa and Brienne. They huddled together in Sansa’s bed and whispered until daybreak while their babes slept in their arms, wrapped in furs and blissful ignorance. The following days ravens came with news. A settlement in the Vale was burned. A flock of sheep in the Riverlands eaten. Two children snatched in the Stormlands. And then he must’ve left for the news stopped coming and the men patrolling the walls of Winterfell saw nothing in the sky but clouds and stars and birds and the waxing and waning moon.

Drogon can’t be the reason for why Tormund has come, though, nor can she think of any political reason for why he wants to stay here for three weeks. And when Tormund finally shares the reason, she's so surprised it takes her a good moment to gather her wits, put her chin back in place, suppress the giggle threatening to bubble out of her, and find some sensible words to give him.

"How did this occur to you?"

He mutters out something indiscernible, eyes shifting to the left. And she can't help but think someone tricked him into it as a jape. Tyrion, perhaps. He did visit a few months ago when Tormund was here too--and he, along with Bran, is invited to her nameday feast.

“If Tyrion put you up to this, he didn't do it to be kind. He did it to amuse himself."

"Bah. What does it matter whose idea it was? Whatever I did before was not working. I went about it the wrong way. I understand that now. But this”--Tormund nods, one eye squinting--”this could work.”

“Tormund,” Sansa says in her kindest voice, “if it does work, it’ll be for the wrong reasons. It won’t be sustainable and it won’t be real. You know that.”

“Yeah, but I have to try. I'm a stubborn old goat. What do you say, Mama Wolf?” He scoops up her hands and cradles them in his own mighty paws. “I need these magical fingers of yours. Will you help me?” He bats his eye lashes like a maiden and sweetens his voice. “Please?”

Sansa sighs deeply, already shaking her head at her own foolish self. “I can’t believe I’m agreeing to--”

The rest of that sentence gets muffled by furs when she finds herself pressed against his chest in a tight hug.

“So,” he says, releasing her. “When do we begin?”

* * *

  
  


On his third day of exploring Meereen to pass the time, Jon finds a marble statue of Missandei standing in a small square surrounded by pale buildings. She’s wrapped in a length of fabric and holds a quill in her hand, butterflies perched on her shoulders, wrist, and head. Neck craned, he circles the statue to admire it. Whoever sculpted her must’ve either seen her himself or done a tremendous job translating Grey Worm’s description into solid form.

“Jon Snow.”

Jon takes his eyes off the statue. Before him stands Strong Spear, an Unsullied he remembers from Dragonstone and, more vividly, from his time in a cell. He was often the one bringing Jon food and never looked at him with the openness he looks at him now. When he offers to show Jon around, Jon accepts. So far, he has been able to walk freely. Guards aren’t following his every step. Yesterday he even ventured outside the city, just to check, but no one followed him then either and no one asked him questions when he returned to the inn past sunset.

Guest truly does seem to mean guest.

Strong Spear leads him through an archway and into a garden. One man stands on his knees, pulling weeds from flower beds. Another prunes rose bushes and a third waters yellow flowers Jon has no name for. Four boys around ten years old throw a ball between them while chanting a rhyme. Two younger boys admire a large butterfly perched on a larger flower. There are butterflies everywhere, fluttering from flower to flower, dancing in the pillars of sunlight spilling through the canopy, resting for a moment on a head or an outstretched hand or one of the garden cats lapping up the sun.

“Not even a year after we took Meereen,” Strong Spear says, “the masters of Astapor and Yunkai attacked us. They brought their fleets here to try and take the city. But their soldiers were slaves. They fought for nothing. And when Marselen said, ‘We are free. If you join us, you will be free too...” A smile blooms on his face. “We won. The masters fled back to their cities and we filled these halls with our liberated brothers. This is Missandei's Haven."

In Missandei's Haven, Strong Spear tells Jon as they walk into one of the buildings where a group of men of all ages practices spelling, former Unsullied learn to live without pressures or demands. They spend their days strolling through the garden and listening to music and playing cyvasse or cards and cuddling with one of the many pets wandering freely around the sanctuary. Once they’re ready they get simple chores like gardening or sweeping the chambers or chopping wood or cooking, and attend lessons in letters and numbers. And that progresses to apprenticeships around the city where they can learn a trade. All to unlearn how to be soldiers conditioned to obey anyone holding a harpy-shaped whip. All to learn how to be free.

“Do any of them choose to be soldiers or guards?” Jon asks.

“So far? More than half. It is all we know. Breaking free is difficult. And we…We are still learning. How to heal--both ourselves and others. But we do learn. And we are helping Yunkai and Astapor to take down their masters too. One day all the masters will be gone and Slaver’s Bay will become the Bay of Butterflies. That is our dream.”

A young man with ink-stained fingers approaches them, then, asking for a word with _Daergis._ That title is new to Jon and, as he’s developed a habit of collecting words to improve his Valyrian any chance he gets, he asks Strong Spear about it once the young man has walked back to his desk.

“It is not a title. It is my name. Daergis. It means free spirit.”

Jon nods slowly. “What does Marselen mean?”

Daergis pats his shoulder. “If King Marselen wants you to know the origin of his name, he will tell you himself. It is not my place.”

When Jon returns to the inn, Xanna is wiping tables with her boy tied to her back. He’s asleep, his round cheek pressed against her shoulder-blade and his mouth pouting like a fish.

He’s two and a half, that boy. About the age Jon and Sansa’s child would’ve been, had their night together borne fruit after all. Or so he estimates. Honestly, he's lost track by now, doesn’t like thinking about it, and yet his mind always insists on exploring what ifs whenever he sees babies and toddlers. Lately, he's grabbed the reins and steered his unruly thoughts in another direction. Today, though, he gives them free rein. Today he thinks about his pretty lady and a red-haired son named Robb walking between them, one little hand in Jon's and another little hand in Sansa's. And it hurts. Gods but it hurts. That dull ache that never truly leaves sears into a sharp pain after all.

Pressing a hand to his chest, Jon sinks down on a chair. He's only half aware of Xanna's sister pouring him a cup of watered wine, absentmindedly thanking her with a mumbled word and a nod. He's only half aware of drinking it, the bitter notes of the wine almost sweet compared to his thoughts.

How different his life could’ve been had he made better choices.

He wonders whether Sansa ever thinks about that. About him.

He hopes she doesn’t; he hopes she’s too happy to remember the man who loved her desperately, aye, but never well enough to deserve her. He hopes she’s married to a nice man and has a child with him and maybe even another on the way. He hopes she's moved on.

He hopes but doesn’t know. Never wants to know, staying as far away from news of Westeros as he can.

Staying as far away from Westeros as he can. No, he'll never return. He's made his choice and, once Drogon is dead, Jon will have to learn how to live with it. He'll have to learn how to move on too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought this would be the last chapter before Jon returned home, but it seems I guesstimated wrong (wow who would’ve guessed not me). He will return home, though! No matter what he thinks atm. Don’t you worry.


	20. Brothers, Dreams, and Butterflies Part I

He keeps dreaming about Sansa. 

During the days he’s too busy swapping jokes and battle stories and practicing his Valyrian to think about her, but once he’s in his bedroll in the tent he shares with Grey Worm and a healer called Vez, Jon’s thoughts return to Winterfell and those thoughts follow him into his dreams and shape them.

They always start the same. Through a golden veil he sees the hazy image of this family of his that only exists in his imagination: Sansa and little Robb, their eyes the same shade of Summer Sea blue and their hair the same shade of autumn leaf red. As if backlit by the sun on a warm summer’s day, they glitter and shine at the edges as they move toward him, smile at him, reach for him. When he’s lucky, his dream self walks into their outstretched arms and they envelope him in that golden warmth, the three of them glittering and shining together at last. In the morning following those nights he wakes up with a smile on his face, cheeks aching. 

When he’s not lucky--and he so rarely is--he sees their kissed-by-fire hair turn into flames and then they don’t glitter and shine at the edges. They glow like parchment put to the flame of a candle, fire licking at their flesh, melting it from their bones, burning those bones into ashes. He sees the flames spreading, setting Winterfell ablaze, the North, the Neck, the whole of Westeros until Jon stands in an inferno, untouched, unburned, alone. Those nights he wakes up soaked through from sweat, chest heaving.

The instinct to run returns, then. To run toward the fire, to slake it with his own that has raged in him ever since the shock of King’s Landing left to let the weight of reality truly sink in. But he’s already on his way. No more flinging about a vast continent. All he needs to do is cross a desert and wait. So he leaves the warm tent for the cool night and paces circles around the campsite until his heart calms enough for him to return to bed.

He never misses the North more than during those nights. It doesn’t smell right, this desert cold. It doesn’t smell like snowflakes and frozen puddles and winter winds. For all his dragon blood, the wolf blood runs thicker--and his wolf blood longs for snow and Winterfell and Ghost.

“You don’t belong where I’m going,” he told him, his forehead pressed against Ghost’s head. “I’m sorry.”

When Jon returns to the tent Vez always snores on, drool pooling on the cloak he folds up as a makeshift pillow every night. But Grey Worm is always awake, his eyes following Jon as he feeds the fire burning in the brazier in the middle of the tent, his eyes asking questions that remain unspoken. And Jon always falls asleep more determined than yesterday to kill the dragon--while growing less and less certain of who he’ll be once this is all over. Who he’ll be and what he’ll do.

Where he’ll belong.

* * *

The afternoon sun shines through the weirwood leaves, casting Bran’s pale face in a faint pink glow. Sansa keeps one eye on him and the other on her little wolf playing with twigs on the carpet of fallen leaves and pine needles and moss. Tomorrow she is twenty-three. Her nameday has seen all seasons, but now her namedays will only ever come during leafing season and it’s the strangest thing. Born a winter child, she’s become an autumn adult.

Jon’s a child of spring, but nowadays his nameday falls in late summer, just as the orpines start to bloom in clusters of dusty pink. They always celebrate it, her and her two wolves. It’s the only day of the whole year that is just for the three of them.

This year Jon would’ve turned twenty-six. They ate kidney pie with pease and onions, and honey cakes for dessert. She drank ale even though she prefers wine. And she told stories until her throat ached, her fingers working the loom.

_Where will we go? The North is yours. Do you have any faith in me at all?_

_Goodbye, Sansa._

Bran’s eyes open. He takes a deep breath, humming as he releases it.

“What did you see?” she asks.

“Nothing.”

Sansa looks around before she leans in closer and asks, quietly, “Your powers are gone, aren’t they. Forever.”

“I can warg. I still have green dreams.”

“And do you see anything in them? Anything I should know.”

He relies on them, she knows. When redspots spread through King’s Landing a year ago and Bronn, who’d never had it as a child, contracted it and died three days later, their Uncle Edmure was in the capital the day of the funeral. And the day after that he was the new Master of Coin.

No matter how fast a steed he rode, that journey should’ve been impossible.

“In my dreams,” Bran says, his eyes faraway, “I see dark red blooms surrounding a wolf sleeping on a bed of stone. Lambs eat the flowers. The stone turns into sand, into a shore, and water washes over the wolf, waking it from its slumber, pulling it out to sea. I see it sailing across the ocean on winter winds and washing ashore an icy coast. I see it run over summer meadows toward trees surrounding a castle built from snow unmelting beneath the sun. The trees are green. Their leaves have yet to turn and fall.”

“Arya,” Sansa says, smiling. “Arya is coming home. Finally. Before summer ends."

Bran only smiles back at Sansa before turning toward her child, arms stretched out. “Come to Uncle Bran. I think it’s time we eat something.”

The little wolf clambers up to Bran’s lap. “Mm hungry. Shoom pie?”

“Very good suggestion,” Bran says, wrapping his arms around the littlest Stark. “I’d love some mushroom pie.”

Sansa grabs the handles of his wheelchair and pushes them onto the stone-paved path leading to the courtyard, mind full of images of a wolf braving the waves of a vast ocean, loping across green fields and through the gates of a snow castle, finding a family within that welcomes him home with their arms open wide.

Jon’s a wolf too.

It’s exhausting. No matter how many times she grabs the truth by the horns and stares right into its ugly face, her heart keeps whispering to her to hope, to have faith, to wait. Just wait a moment more.

It’s _exhausting_.

She could ask Bran, but he would never tell her. The few times he does share his green dreams, he always lets her interpret them herself.

Sansa sighs and walks on.

  
  


* * *

They’re no longer called Unsullied, Grey Worm’s men, but _Abrar_ _Mīsio_. Protector of the people. Among them are about two hundred Dothraki who chose not to return to the plains of the Dothraki Sea but followed Grey Worm first to Naath and, later, to Meereen. Three of them and twenty-five of the former Unsullied joined Jon and Grey Worm on their quest as traveling through the desert is dangerous.

The once unified and mighty khalasar broke into countless smaller khalasars when they returned to the plains and, while some assimilated to the more peaceful culture developed by the women, children, and elderly they’d left behind, others returned to their former way of life. 

“We will encounter them,” Grey Worm said as they departed. “And when it is time to fight, you will stay away.”

Jon frowned at that. “I can help. You’ll need every man you can get.”

“No. If you die, we have no one to kill Drogon. You will not fight.”

They’ve ridden for almost three weeks when Grey Worm’s cautions prove prudent.

They’ve stopped at a Lhazareen settlement to fill their waterskins and trade for provisions, filling their saddlebags with salted legs of lamb, sheep milk cheese, pickled cactus meat, and flat round bread. It’s a friendly place with kind people who are all familiar with the _Abrar_ _Mīsio_ and are honored to trade with them. But as their party is packing up to leaveTekho, one of the Dothraki, crouches to the ground and presses his palm against the dusty dirt.

“Khalasar coming,” he says. “Small.”

 _“Abrar_ _Mīsio_ _!”_ Grey Worm shouts and his men stand at attention. “ _Khalasar udekurzi!_ ”

And there it is: the low rumble of galloping horses against sunbaked sand. In fluid movements the soldiers grab their weapons and form a protective barrier between the approaching sound and the village. Reflexively, Jon does the same--only to feel Grey Worm’s firm hand landing on his shoulder.

“No,” he says. Then he nods at Vez. “Keep Jon Snow away. If we die, go back to Meereen, gather more men, and take Jon Snow to the lair. Murgho Zobri _must_ die.” Grey Worm’s eyes bore into Jon’s. “He must.”

Jon nods and slides Longclaw back into its sheath.

(It’s almost a relief.)

They stay so far away from the village only muted sounds of battle reach them. Jon thinks about the Free Folk, then. Did they return to their old ways too? Do they pillage and steal and kidnap maidens? Does Sansa settle disputes, send out men to protect villages, and execute wildlings for raiding? How does the North look under her rule?

Will he ever see it?

When there at last is silence, Jon wants to creep closer and take a look, but Vez shakes his head and so they wait until one of Grey Worm's closest men finally comes to get them, blood-spattered and tired and victorious. Back at the village Grey Worm is discussing matters with the village elders while his men tie up prisoners and gather the bodies of the fallen. Zosha, the godswife, and her two apprentices are already hard at work healing the injured--neighbor, ally, and enemy alike. Vez rolls up his sleeves and helps them, while Jon helps Tekho and his fellow _Abrar_ _Mīsio_ Dothraki in transporting the seven fallen raiders a good distance away from the village, their horses trotting along behind them.

They must be slain too, Tekho says, so that the Dothraki can ride their steeds in the afterlife. That is their way. While he takes care of that, Jon and the others builds a pyre out there in the desert. And then they settle down and wait for the first star to shine in the sky before lighting the fire and returning to the village.

* * *

  
  


“How do I look?”

Sansa gapes at Tormund, her chin resting firmly on the flagstones.

“Hah!” He puffs out his chest with a proud smile. “That good, eh?”

“Honestly?” she says and in the pause that follows his smiles falters, just a little. “Yes. You’re _very_ handsome.”

Tormund’s smile returns with the force of a midday sun. “So I look like one of those perfumed twats, then-- Wait. Should I wear perfume?” He leans in closer. “Smell me.”

She pushes him gently back. “You smell like soap. That’s all you need.” She pauses to give him a stern look. “You did wash _all_ of yourself, didn’t you?”

“Every little bit.” He waggles his eyebrows. “And the big bits too.” 

“Tormund,” she says, “no matter what happens tonight, you’re a good man. You’re kind and funny and sweet. Any woman or man would--”

“And any bear!” He fires off a grin, his cleaned teeth sparkling.

“No bear jokes or bear stories tonight. It won’t do you any favors.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “How stupid do you think I am?” He taps his temple. “I remember all my lessons.”

“Even your dancing lessons?”

He grabs her by the waist and spins her around. “Especially my dancing lessons!”

Once he puts her down again, Sansa adjusts the fit of his doublet over his shoulders like a worried mother sending her son out to battle. “Are you sure about this?”

“Mama Wolf.” Tormund takes her hands and pats them before holding them in his own. “I am old enough to be your father. I have had two wives and plenty of lovers and several children--and I lost them all to that damn blue-eyed fucker. If the big woman rejects me, I’ll live. And if she doesn’t, I know it’ll only be fucking. I might not be as clever as you southerners, but I’m not stupid enough to think this is enough for her to love me. All right?”

Sansa tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear and feels oddly misty, so similar to when she first saw her baby wolf moving from all fours to two stubby legs and toddling across the room before collapsing into her arms with a beaming smile.

“Then you’re ready,” she whispers. “Off you go.”

* * *

  
  


Burning ashes dance in the air, drifting, floating, flitting in time with the music of flutes, strings, and drums thrumming through the village. Women scoop peppery snake stew into bowls, and pour wine brewed from cacti into clay mugs. Men turn lamb on their spits. Children dance around the bonfire with ribbons fluttering from their waving hands. Once everyone has food and drink and a place to sit, on woven mats or log benches or someone’s lap, they cheer to King Marselen’s good health and offer him choice meat of lamb rubbed with spices and grilled to juicy perfection. 

Conversations spin a web over the settlement, woven from a blend of Valyrian, Dothraki, Lhazareen, and Common Tongue. Jokes sometimes land with a roar of laughter. Other times they splat to the ground. Songs do well no matter the tongue, and flirting needs only looks and smiles and gestures. Many try their luck with Grey Worm, the King, but he keeps his replies curt and polite until they give up. A young woman sets her golden eyes on Jon and, rolling her hips, motions at him to join her in dance. But he shakes his head with a smile and she gives him a charming _your loss_ shrug and pulls another of Grey Worm’s men to his feet.

It’s odd to see them like this, these soldiers Jon once knew as men of stone dancing and smiling at pretty girls (and pretty boys). It’s odd, aye, but wonderful and heart-warming too to see how much they’ve healed. And when some of them vanish into tents and huts or into the dark with a local on their arm, giggles and moans rising and falling in harmony with the music, it’s a bit perplexing as well.

“You look surprised to see my men enjoying themselves,” Grey Worm says.

Jon gestures vaguely with his mug. “I thought you all were…” 

Grey Worm grins. “There are many things a man and a woman can enjoy together, even without a pillar.”

“I know. I just didn’t think…” Jon nods to himself, smiling. “Yeah. I get it. You still want it, don’t you. That closeness.”

“The golden-eyed woman wanted to dance with you. Even though you did not fight. You did not want her?”

“Nah.” Jon drinks his wine. It’s rather good, fruity and sweet, and makes the spiced meat taste even better. It makes him feel better too, as if he sunk into the hot springs, warm and relaxed and floating. “There’s no time for that.”

“There is plenty of time. All night. For those who want it.” 

“You don’t then, I take it?”

“He still loves Missandei,” Vez says. He’s lying on his back and gazing up at the sky, head pillowed on one folded arm and his legs crossed, his left foot moving in time with the music. “Xanna is the most beautiful woman in Meereen. All men want her and she only wants Marselen. She has loved him for moons and moons. But”--he makes his voice high-pitched and whiny--”he does not want to betray his Missandei.”

Grey Worm throws a gnawed-clean bone at his friend, who parries it with a grin.

“We keep saying to him: Missandei was a good woman. She would want you to be happy. Xanna could make you happy! It is not betrayal.”

“Vez is right,” Jon says, smiling crookedly. “She would want you to be happy. And it’s not a betrayal. You have to move on. Live your life.”

Grey Worm looks at him, eyes dark and inscrutable. “Then why have you not moved on from the woman you love?”

“I didn’t,” Jon says and even now, after weeks of riding together, after knowing Grey Worm isn’t loyal to Daenerys anymore, Jon’s heart still races at the confession as if Grey Worm can change his mind any moment and strike him down after all. “I never loved her.”

“I did not mean Daenerys. I meant Lady Stark.”

Jon blinks. “Uh,” he says, smartly.

“You still love her.”

Jon clears his throat. The woven mat beneath him no longer feels comfortable, and the log bench behind him digs into his spine. He shifts his position this way and that, but no matter how much he squirms it’s still uncomfortable. He drinks more wine.

“Why are you not with Lady Stark? She loved you too.”

He shrugs, tapping his thumb against the mug. “She deserves better than me.”

“I agree.” Grey Worm nods. “Much better.”

Jon breathes out a laugh. “That’s not what you’re supposed to say. You’re supposed to say that I’m good enough. Or maybe that I should become a better man. Someone she deserves. That I should go get her.”

“I will not.” Grey Worm empties his mug and rests it on his pulled-up knee. “She is a good woman. She deserves the best. You are terrible.”

Jon’s shoulders bounce with another laugh and Grey Worm’s serious mask cracks with a grin. When an older woman with a jug walks past them, he holds out the cup and smiles at her when she pours it full of wine. He has a good smile, Grey Worm. Warm and bright. Even after all these weeks it still shocks Jon to see him like this, so carefree and happy despite it all.

Does Jon ever look like that?

Does he ever _feel_ like that?

“I am not ready,” Grey Worm says. “To love another.” He nods at a tent, where shadows move fluidly behind a canvas painted gold by lamplight. “At least not like that.”

“Me neither,” Jon hears himself say. Slowly, he lowers the clay mug to rest in the sand as if the meaning of his words needs room to settle within him. “I’ve not been ready.”

“Why not?” Vez asks.

Jon drinks more wine and lets that buzz spread in his body until he’s so relaxed his mouth can finally speak the feelings that have rumbled around in his chest for a couple of years now without ever being voiced.

“I was too tired. All my life I’ve been fighting and never for what I want. Never for what I need. Always for other people. I fought and I failed and I died and I rose and I fought. Again and again and again. And then it was all over and I had fucked everything up. And to be with her…?” He sighs, shaking his head. “I would have to fight again. And she would’ve, I know she would’ve, but I didn’t have any fight left in me, not even for the things I used to want. I didn’t want it anymore. I couldn’t handle any demands or expectations. I just wanted everything and everyone to go away. I just wanted to rest.”

“You are chasing a dragon,” Vez says. “That is not resting.”

Jon lifts one corner of his mouth. “Yeah, well, turns out it wasn’t really over. As long as Drogon’s out there, it won’t ever be over. I’ll never find peace.”

Grey Worm watches Jon thoughtfully, a wrinkle of concern between his brows. But Vez is still gazing at the sky, his foot wagging cheerfully.

“Once you’ve slain him,” Vez says and his voice is cheerful too, “you will return to Winterfell a hero. Then she will have you. You will not have to fight.”

It’s not that easy, Jon wants to say. He broke the North’s trust, the North’s heart. And by now Sansa will have done her duty, found herself a husband, and had a child. The heir to Winterfell and the Northern throne. A new little Stark. The first of many. She has no wars to distract her--nor a cousin around to complicate everything.

But even though he’s at least ten years older than both Jon and Grey Worm, Vez sounds almost youthful in his optimism and Jon doesn’t have the heart to erase that cheerfulness. So he only makes himself nod and smile and drink his cactus wine, watching the sparks of fire floating up into the sky.

Tonight Sansa will shape his dreams, he knows. Hopefully, he won’t see her burning this time but dancing like those sparks of fire. Dancing with him in that push and pull of theirs that always left him so bewildered and wanting and exhausted. Ashamed too.

It was never easy between them. Only when they were the wolf sword man and the pretty lady--but they were children, those two. Innocent versions of the man and woman they grew up to be. And the man Jon is now has nothing left to offer but answers and apologies.

She deserves that, at least.

When this is finally over, for true this time, he will write to her. He will tell her that Drogon is dead and that Jon will visit once he can.

If he lives, that is.

* * *

On Sansa’s tenth nameday, when she’d outgrown bedtime stories and tucking in at night, she was given her own chamber. For the first time in her life she was to sleep alone. Without she was excited and grateful and beaming. Within, however…

That first night the candles burned down low while she read a book until her eyes drooped and the book fell to her chest and she finally slept from sheer exhaustion. 

Before that nameday, she and Arya had shared a chamber and a bed, and Mother always tucked them in herself. She would lie like Sansa lies now with her daughters in her arms, stroking their hair and whispering stories into the dark until her girls slept. 

Sansa whispers stories too but not of beautiful maidens and brave knights but of a man who rose from the dead and made her feel safe for the first time in years.

By the time her little cub sleeps, she can hear the din of guests streaming into the great hall, and smell the mouthwatering scent of fine food so painstakingly prepared by the kitchens. Annika has already braided her hair and Sansa already wears shift, corset, and stockings. All she needs is to step into her new emerald green dress inspired by her mother’s old gowns with trumpet sleeves, brocade prints, and sweeping skirts.

What would Mother think if she saw her now? A queen, yes, but an unwed mother too--with Jon Snow as the father of her bastard. 

_I hope you would be proud, despite it all_ , she thinks and, after caressing soft toddler hair and sleep-warm cheeks one last time, leaves the chamber.

Brienne waits outside. Unlike Arya she doesn’t mind the occasional dress as long as it’s simple. This one is cornflower blue with tiny suns and crescent moons embroidered along the hems in thread only one shade paler than the dress. A leather belt marks her waist and the heels of her boots make her so tall Sansa has to tip her head back to meet Brienne's eyes.

Sansa still hasn’t told her. Perhaps she’s a bad friend, but she’s Tormund’s friend too and he wants to make a bit of an entrance--and he does. The first course has been served when he saunters into the great hall with a lazy smirk on his lips. Heads turn as he passes. Ladies gasp and huddle close, whispering behind cupped hands. Lords sit a little straighter and suck in their guts.

He’s clean-shaven, hair washed and combed back, his curls brushing against the shoulders of his deep blue doublet. His well-fitted black breeches cling to shapely thighs and are tucked into black leather boots Sansa paid handsomely to have made so quickly. But, she must admit, it was fun dressing up a life-sized doll--and more fun still now that she sees the effect Tormund has on her guests. He’s striking. Anyone can see it.

Sansa casts a discreet glance at Brienne.

She’s watching him too, frowning. “Who is that? He looks so familiar.” Brienne tilts her head like an owl, frown deepening. “I swear I’ve seen him before. Is he from the Stormlands or-- Oooh.” Her eyes blow wide beneath that furrowed brow, mouth still formed around the _oh_. “No... No! What?” She grabs the edge of the table and leans over it, squinting now. “Where is his beard! He has a _jaw_? It’s so… _square_.”

She says it as if a square jaw were the least attractive thing a man could ever possess and she keeps staring at him as if so insulted by his appearance she’s one impulse away from throwing him out herself.

But she also can’t take her eyes off him as he swans about before his wildling friends and shines beneath their hollers and cheers. She barely even blinks.

“Brienne,” Sansa says, “don’t you find Tormund handsome this evening?”

Brienne scoffs, pink roses blooming on her cheeks. “I most certainly do not.”

“I think he looks beautiful,” Gilly says. “And that color suits him.”

Frown smoothed out, Brienne picks up her spoon and dips it into the soup of barley and venison. “I suppose he looks handsome, for being him, and blue is generally flattering on redheads, but that does not mean--” She stops talking, spoon frozen halfway between bowl and mouth. Slowly, she lowers her hand to the table, spoon sinking back into the soup, and turns to Sansa. “Your Grace,” she says. “When Tormund wanted to speak to you alone-- And he’s been here for _three_ weeks for no apparent reason. And I could swear I’ve seen a bolt of fabric that shade of blue in your chamber. What is going on?”

“He wanted to look pretty. For you. So I helped him.”

“For me?” The frown returns. “He did all that for _me_?”

“I also told him it wouldn’t work. Because it’s not working.” Sansa smiles innocently. “Is it?”

“No,” Brienne says with a proud tilt of her chin. “It is not. One good scrub in a tub is not enough to change a man.”

The spoon finally makes it to her mouth and Brienne chews the venison primly, her jaw muscles working, her eyebrows raised almost haughtily, her eyes sliding back to Tormund who’s sitting down now. He picks up the correct spoon, scoops it through the soup away from him, catches the drip on the rim of the bowl, brings the spoon to his mouth, and eats neatly from the side rather than shoving the whole thing into his mouth. His eyes shoot to Sansa, seeking approval. She smiles proudly and gives a small nod. _Perfect_. Tormund grins, his gaze shifting over to Brienne. But she only huffs at him and returns her attention to the food. She never sees Tormund’s face falling.

Sansa does, though--and her heart breaks for him. 

She knew it wouldn’t work. She knew it was a bad idea. She knew she should’ve put a stop to it. But she loves them both so much and it would’ve been so sweet to see them finding happiness together. When she worked on Tormund’s clothes she even found herself daydreaming that he would come to live at Winterfell and join their motley family for true. He’s so wonderful with the children and he did so well during his lessons and he looked so handsome too. So she allowed herself to think that maybe, _maybe_ …

She allowed herself to hope.

Oh, she never learns, does she?

* * *

Servants clear the tables and push them to the walls. Musicians pick up their instruments, tuning them together before falling into a jaunty melody that lures dancers to their feet. Brienne knows even before she glances at Tormund that she’ll find him staring at her, hopeful like a puppy begging for scratches behind the ear. But he’s not a puppy; he’s a great big oaf and she’s not making a spectacle of herself by letting him fumble around with her on the dance floor.

King Bran is speaking with his cousin about falconry and Brienne listens in, nodding and humming, all attentive. Falconry is a very interesting sport and it becomes more intriguing still when King Bran shares that he hunts too--only by warging into the bird and hunting the prey himself. Tormund talked about that once, how wildings use wargs to scout and she shouldn’t think about him and his stupid square jaw. She’s listening to a very interesting conversation about falconry and the man sitting next to Robin Arryn has a very pleasant way of speaking. Lord… Brienne glances at his clothes for a crest. Ah, his doublet is lined with a red and white diamond print. That’s House… Hardyng, isn’t it?

Lord Hardyng. _He’s_ the handsome one. Fair of hair and blue of eyes. Deep dimples lining his cheeks when he smiles. A good nose, not too pretty. And a moderately square jaw. Just the right amount. And his manners. Very refined. He would know how to lead a lady across the dance floor. He wouldn’t toss her about like a ragdoll or fling around the place like a wildling with too much sour goat’s milk in his belly.

Her eyes seek out Tormund quite on their own, then. Just to see whether he’s coaxed some poor woman into dancing with him, mind you, or whether he’s still staring at Brienne. But he’s doing neither. He’s flirting with a flock of pretty ladies who all fawn over him as if he weren’t normally a matted heap of furs. Well, let them have him. Brienne’s having a perfectly lovely time with Lord Hardyng and Robin Arryn and King Bran. True gentlemen, all three of them.

* * *

The thick scent of expensive perfume and red wine seeps into Sansa’s nose. The chair next to hers scrapes against the flagstones. A wine cup is put on the table. She drinks from her own cup filled with the golden bubbly wine she’s come to prefer. Lysandor Martell brought three more crates with him as a nameday gift to her. Now, he's dancing with his wife and they're so elegant they've drawn a crowd of delighted spectators. There's only one sad face among them: Tormund drawing a wistful sigh as his eyes wander from the dancing pair over to Brienne.

"Happy nameday, Your Grace," Tyrion says. "I hope you're enjoying yourself this splendid evening."

"I am, thank you. Just as I'm sure you're enjoying your little jape."

“Sansa. Why do you always assume I have the worst intentions?”

“Yes, that was unfair of me. You’ve always been Tormund’s greatest supporter. How could I forget?”

“He has his charms. Now that he’s no longer my brother’s rival, I have noticed his finer qualities.” Tyrion hums. “That jaw really is something else, isn’t it. He could kill a man with that thing.”

“It’s Tormund. I’m sure he has.”

With a soft sigh Tyrion turns the chair more fully toward her. “I did have good intentions this time, I swear. I couldn’t help but notice they get along now. And… I couldn’t help but notice he still loves her. And she is lonely. She might not admit it. But I know what it’s like to lose the person you love and I can recognize it in others.” He looks up at her with kind eyes. “That loneliness. That emptiness...”

Sansa turns her gaze back to the dancers. “I hear you won’t serve as my little brother’s Hand anymore.”

It takes Tyrion a beat to reply. “No. It’s time I return home and become a proper lord. I need to nurture my relationships with my bannermen and the people of the Westerlands until Jaime comes to live with me. I need to prepare, for his sake.”

That’s eight years away, though. And Tyrion’s stepping down as Hand was less his own decision and more Bran’s friendly suggestion Tyrion wisely accepted. This way he can pretend it was his choice and not the fact that few lords from the other kingdoms felt comfortable with Tyrion so close to their new and oh-so-young and impressionable king. And Bran can pretend it wasn’t his plan all along.

She doesn’t point this out, though. Lets Tyrion keep his precious pride.

“Lord Royce will be a good Hand to your brother,” he says. “He’s a sensible, honorable man. In fact, I suggested him as my successor myself.”

Sansa hides a smile behind her wine cup. Yohn Royce, the man who was a close and personal friend of their father’s? Yes, that little seed can’t have been planted by Bran himself. No, it was _Tyrion’s_ idea. Of course it was. She all but rolls her eyes.

“Speaking of successors,” Tyrion says and her little smirk dies. “Once Jaime comes to Casterly Rock and Joanna leaves for Evenfall, Winterfell will be rather quiet. Well. Unless... _Brienne_ has more children.”

Sansa sweeps her eyes over the sea of guests, searching for a life raft to save her from drowning in this conversation without insulting Tyrion outright and disrupting her brother’s carefully spun web. 

“She should,” Tyrion says. “We have something else in common, you know. The three of us. We know how easily people die.” 

It could’ve sounded like a threat if not for the bitter sadness in his voice. If not for the forlorn way he stares into his cup of wine.

“Tyrion," she says with more fondness than she feels, "if I wanted the services of a matchmaker, I’d choose someone with better skills than you.”

“Oh?” With his wine cup, Tyrion gestures at Tormund and Brienne and the ample space between. “You don’t think I’ve found my new calling?”

Sansa rewards him with a small laugh. 

“When I saw him,” Tyrion says, “I really did think it would work. He’s ridiculously handsome.”

“Perhaps you should try your luck. Tormund does like men.”

“Ah, but you see, my dear. I do not. Why don't you have a go? You'd have beautiful redhaired, blue-eyed babies, taller than the sky."

"I love Tormund dearly, but he's like a brother to me."

Tyrion emits a high-pitched noise muffled by his pressed-together lips that twitch with the effort of trapping whatever joke popped up in his mind before it escapes his mouth.

"Go on," she says. "Have your fun."

"No." He draws out the word. "Not on Your Grace's nameday. I shall behave."

Tyrion gives her the smile of old friends, then. A smile that says they’re so close by now they can talk about everything and nothing and she knows he’ll return to the topic. She knows he can’t help but meddle, can't help but fill other people's emptiness to forget his own. So Sansa keeps searching for her life raft but no matter where she looks, everyone is deep in conversation with someone else. Edmure and Robin are sitting on a bench with a tankard in hand, swaying to the music while singing loudly along. Bran is talking with a rather beautiful southern lady who looks at him with stars in her eyes. Brienne is smiling at a lord Sansa remembers vaguely from her time in the Vale (and he’s smiling back at her). And Davos is chatting with Lord Glover while Podrick’s flirting with Erena Glover when her father isn’t looking. She’s he’s only living child. Last winter his wife and three year old daughter succumbed to a coughing fever. And in the spring his only son and heir followed when a badger spooked his horse, and Gawen fell off and landed on his neck. 

Yes. People do die easily.

Glover is already looking for a new wife. A young lady who can give him sons.

“Sansa,” Tyrion says in that tone of his.

Her eyes land on Yara Greyjoy.

About a year ago a small group of Ironborn sailed into Blazewater Bay to raid the Barrowlands. To settle matters Sansa met Yara at Moat Cailin and told her raiding could be considered an act of war; Yara told her they were not Ironborn loyal to her but a group of disgruntled men angry over the fact that their queen would not let them rape and pillage anymore. Sansa pointed out those men were still Yara’s responsibility and, if it came to war, Bran would take Sansa’s side and Yara would have to fight all of Westeros and was she truly prepared for that? Yara told her she’d round the men up and behead them herself. And then, somehow, they started talking about how dumb men are. How annoying. And stupid. How tiresome it can be to be queen in a world of men who’d rather stare at your tits than listen to what you have to say--

“Jaime’s not the only one who’s gone,” Tyrion continues. “Jon won’t return from the dead this time. You know that. You’re too young to be a widow grieving for a husband you never had.” Tyrion touches her arm lightly. “Don’t spend the rest of your life miserable and alone, Sansa.”

\--after that they started talking about Theon, her and Yara. She wanted to know everything Sansa could remember from their idyllic days in Winterfell when they were young and innocent, and somehow she and Yara parted as friends. Or at least friendly. When Sansa returned home she searched through all of Winterfell after anything that had been Theon’s, packed it all in a traveling chest, and sent it to the Iron Islands. Some time after that, Yara sent her a raven announcing her pregnancy. 

He was born three months ago, her son. Theon. Sired by a salt husband. When Yara gave her a nameday gift earlier this evening, Sansa gave Yara a gift in return. A tunic embroidered with a T cradled by the mighty arms of a kraken. She couldn’t help herself. The moment she learned of baby Theon, her eyes blurred with tears and her mind coped by creating a design and filling her hands with fabric, needle, and thread.

Baby Theon is not with Yara tonight, nor is the salt husband, but she has her rock wife on her arm--and it’s the rock wife who notices Sansa’s distress and nudges Yara in the side. She needs only to look at Sansa and Tyrion to know Sansa needs rescuing from an annoying man, and gets to her feet.

Sansa breathes out her relief and holds her chin higher. _Not too high_. Lowers it a little.

“I appreciate your concern, Tyrion," she says and manages to smile. "You're very kind. But I am not alone and miserable. My life is full and I am happy.”

Then Yara is at their table, proffering her hand with a smirk, all effortless charm. “I couldn’t help but notice the nameday girl hasn’t danced yet this evening. Allow me to remedy that, Your Grace.”

“If you’ll excuse me,” Sansa tells Tyrion, and lets herself be led out on the floor.

They whirl around together until the music changes and a southern lord takes Yara’s place. After him comes a northern lord and after him Lysandor Martell and after him Arreld, a wildling with black hair and piercing blue eyes who wants to try this silly southern prancing about, as he calls it with a charming enough smile Sansa finds herself blushing. She even hears herself giggle when he walks into her and nearly bumps their noses together. And when the song ends and a slower tune takes its place, she surprises herself by teaching him that dance too.

It’s lovely, really, dancing with a man who doesn’t bristle when he makes the wrong turn or steps on her toes. Who doesn’t bristle when she guides him. It’s lovely and easy and she’s enjoying herself a great deal. From the way Arreld looks at her, she knows she could enjoy herself in other ways too. Kings take bed warmers all the time. She could as well. Tyrion certainly thinks so. That's what he was trying to say. Take a husband or a lover and have more children--and he’s not entirely wrong. She should have more children. An heir, one or two to marry off, and someone who can stay to support their ruling sibling. Someone who'll be loyal, always. Someone who can step up and rule, if it ever comes to that.

But this perfectly lovely man does not make her heart flutter. He doesn’t fill her stomach with butterflies or her head with silly dreams. Only Jon does that. She still loves him. Not that love is needed for want to stir, but when she looks around the room and sees couples kissing or sneaking off together to do more than that, she knows she doesn’t want Arreld either.

She still only wants Jon. 

And he might still be out there. He might be the wolf on his way home.

* * *

Brienne leaves the privy on light feet and steps out on the courtyard to head back to the great hall. Lord Hardyng is at least ten years her junior, but he’s proved lovely company tonight. For at least two hours they’ve spoken without ever running out of things to say--or without his being distracted by anyone else. As if she’s the only woman in the room despite all the pretty young ladies attending the feast. He’s quick to smile and quick to laugh, and there’s something about his fine-wrought features that makes her feel all warm inside.

Their fingers brushed earlier. They reached for the same cup. Her cup. He laughed at that, blue eyes sparkling, and found his own cup. “I seem a bit dizzy tonight,” he said and looked so deeply into her eyes she couldn’t help but think she was the reason for his dizziness. Her. _Brienne_. Then, a moment later, he did it again and sparks of pleasure and want burst in her body. It’s been _so_ long…

Is she mad for entertaining the thought of bringing him back to her chamber? Yes, he seems the perfect gentleman, but she does leave him dizzy and he leaves her dizzy too. And they wouldn't be the only people finding pleasure tonight. In fact, as she moves across the courtyard, she hears plenty of moans and giggles and whispers of lovers hidden in shadowy corners. And it's not as if she's a maiden anymore. But then she overhears something that makes her stop in her tracks. Her own name--and Lord Hardyng’s.

Beneath the cloak of night, Brienne stands perfectly still and listens to gossip. Apparently, her perfect gentleman has bastards--several bastards by several different women. Apparently, he fells women quicker than the busiest beaver (which is followed with a snort of a laugh) and now he’s set his eye on the Kingslayer’s beast. And who wouldn’t want to best that beast? What noises she would make! What marks she would leave in the throes of passion. What stories one could tell…

“You think she wants him, though?” one of the gossipers says.

“Hah, of course she does. He looks like ser Jaime, doesn’t he. She'll probably call him Kingslayer and all as he fucks her.”

Shame burns through Brienne like wildfire poured down her throat. The image of Harry Hardyng blends together with the memory of Jaime. The same color hair, the same color eyes, the same dimpled smile. They even have the same nose for goodness’ sake! What is she _doing_?

Cheeks aflame, Brienne spins around and heads toward the only place where no one would think to go this time of night. As she enters the clearing of the heart-tree, however, she finds a great shape sitting at its roots, elbows resting on his knees and head hanging. A twig snaps beneath her foot and his head snaps up to look at the intruder. In the moonlight his yellow-red hair looks almost silver and his face sculpted from marble. Oh, all right. Fine. He _is_ handsome. But he’s not the one for her and she should leave him to his brooding, but her body moves forward and then she’s sitting right next to him among the gnarly roots.

He smells like soap and lavender and the faintest hint of fresh, clean sweat.

Brienne clears her throat. “Where has your flock of admirers gone? Did they fly away?”

“Bah. I want real women not spring chickens.” He nudges her shoulder with his. “And what about you and that fancy twat. The one who looked like the Kingkiller.”

“Lord Hardyng.” She sighs. “It seems he only wanted to boast about bedding me.”

“He said that?”

“Someone else did.”

“And you believed them? Nah. I saw the way he looked at you. He wanted you. He wanted _you,_ Brienne. You should go back to him.”

“And do what?”

Tormund shrugs. “Fuck?”

“And be the one everyone whispers about tomorrow? Lord Hardyng tamed the Kingslayer’s beast. Perhaps she’s desperate enough to carry his bastard too.”

“Don’t listen to those cunts. If they can’t see that you’re the most incredible woman in the world then their opinions mean as much as yellow snow.”

Brienne regards him, suspiciously. “Did Sansa teach you to say that?”

“No, it’s a wildling saying.”

She rolls her eyes. “Not yellow snow. The other thing.”

“Oh. Nah. She sewed me this." He pats his doublet-covered chest. "Taught me how to eat like a proper lord. And to dance. That’s all.”

“She taught you how to dance? I didn’t see you on the dance floor.”

“The only woman I wanted to dance with ignored me all night so…”

“Do you want me to feel guilty?”

“You could feel a little guilty?” He grins. “I went through all this trouble.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“I know.” He heaves a sigh. “I was being a fool. I just wanted you to see I’m more than just… Whatever it is you think I am. But that’s not what you want. You'll never want me, no matter what I wear or how many baths I take."

“Did you honestly believe it would work?”

He shrugs. “I’ve loved you since the first moment I saw you and I don’t think I’ll ever stop. There's no one like you, you know. I had to at least try it your way before I gave up. But I have. Given up. You don’t have to worry about this old fool anymore.”

His head hangs again, his profile bathed in silver light. He has a good nose too that’s entirely his own. The breeze carries the muted tones of _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_ from the great hall. She always hated that vulgar song, but this isn’t a grand romance and Tormund isn't her knight in shining armor and nothing about this needs to be perfect.

She rises to her feet. “Dance with me.”

He looks up at her, eyes narrowed. “There’s no music.”

“Yes, there is. Listen. It’s about bears. You'd like it.”

“But you don’t want to dance with me.”

She lifts a shoulder and looks away, nonchalant. “You did go through all that trouble. The least I can do is allow you to show off what you learned.”

As Tormund moves to his feet, he stares at her much like he did the day they met, wide-eyed and gaping. Unappealing. It makes her feel grotesque rather than admired. But when he steps into her space something serious falls over him and he closes his mouth and holds his head like a king. She hears it, then, how the music has changed. How it's become slow and haunting and beautiful. She hasn’t danced since she was a little girl, but her body still remembers the stances and she lays her hands on his shoulders. His broad, strong shoulders. And when his large hands close around her waist, her stomach does the strangest jolt.

It’s odd to see him like this, this man she once knew as a beast without manners now dancing with her in the moonlight. It’s odd, yes, but flattering too for no one has ever gone to this much trouble just to please her. And when he leads her across the mossy ground with grace and solemnity, in perfect harmony with the music, it’s a bit perplexing as well.

He’s _good_ at it. Remarkably good. She shouldn’t be surprised, really. He’s a good fighter. Why wouldn’t he be a good dancer? Why wouldn’t he be a good--

“What?” he asks. "You're staring at me."

Brienne blinks. “You look very handsome tonight.”

“You look very handsome every night.”

She breathes out a smile, shaking her head a little. “Beautiful. You should call a lady _beautiful_.”

“You’re that too," he says and he looks like he means it. Truly means it.

She sees her hand sliding up the side of his neck, the pad of her thumb stroking a line up the sharp angle of his jaw. “I would be using you,” she says. “If I took you to bed. You know that, don’t you? I would be using you because I can’t be with the man I really love.”

“I know,” he says, his voice dark and low and reverberating in her chest, and then his hands slide too. To the small of her back, pressing her closer to him. “Use me all you like.”

She doesn’t love him. She doesn’t think she ever will. But he's just as handsome as the men she dreamed of when she was a little girl and he feels so good against her body and a small flame of desire burns within, begging to be slaked by someone else's hands for once.

No, she doesn’t love him, but her body acts on its own and tilts his face to hers and kisses him anyway.

* * *

An hour past midnight Sansa leaves the great hall alone but not lonely. Once she reaches the hallway she once shared with Jon, she kicks off her slippers and lets them dangle from her fingers, her feet swollen and aching after all that dancing.

She didn’t see Tormund when she left nor Brienne. He’s probably entertaining a pretty lady while Brienne is alone. Harry Hardyng, the man she spent most of the evening flirting with, was still in the great hall and now he was flirting with a spearwife.

Curled around her little wolf, Ghost lifts his head when she enters her bed chamber. Annika, who’s been dozing in a chair by the fire, rubs her eyes and gets to her feet, helping Sansa out of her dress and into her nightrail. She removes all the pins from her hair and the bracelet of hammered gold adorned with garnets Sansa always wears around her wrist. And she pours warm water into the wash basin so Sansa can clean her face and mouth. Then she leaves, and Sansa gingerly joins her little family of one big wolf and one tiny child in the bed they share.

“Mama,” a sleepy voice murmurs. “Is morning?”

“No, sweetling. It’s still night. Go back to sleep.”

“Story. Pease?”

She sifts soft hair between her fingers. “What do you want to hear?”

“Ha-home.”

“Hardhome’s a scary one. Are you sure?”

“Ha-home.”

“If you insist,” Sansa says, burrowing deeper into the furs with her arms full of sleepy toddler. “Once upon a time your papa and Uncle Tormund traveled to a village far beyond the Wall, right on the icy coast…”

She keeps telling a more child friendly version of Jon’s fight against the White Walkers in a calm voice until her child sleeps and she almost sleeps herself, a content smile on her lips.

She wasn’t lying to Tyrion. Her life is full and she is happy.

When she was a new queen, every so often a knot of dread and anxiety would form in Sansa’s stomach. She was not made to be ruling queen but to be the pretty dove on her king husband’s arm. A similar fear often struck her when she was a new mother and gazed down at the life in her arms. How was she supposed to do this alone? She _needed_ Jon.

But she hasn’t been alone. She has Brienne and Wolkan and Annika. She has Gilly and Tormund and Ghost. She has Bran and Uncle Edmure and Robin Arryn. And she has her people. She’s not alone at all. The North is thriving, and so are her and Brienne’s children. She’s in want of nothing.

Her life is full.

She is happy.

Sansa snuggles closer to her wolves and lets her eyes drift closed.

(She still dreams of Jon.)

* * *

When Jon finally drags himself from the dying bonfire and falls asleep in his bedroll, he does dream of Sansa. She’s neither burning nor dancing, though. He’s the one doing both, writhing in the flames of his death dance while she looks on, her face hidden behind a mask of painted porcelain. Pretty as a doll.

When he wakes that morning, breathless and damp from sweat, he finds Zosha packed and ready to join them. She’s read the signs, she says. They’ll need a healer and her people want the dragon slain just as much as everyone else. They want to do their part. When Grey Worm points out Vez can stitch wounds and treat infections, Zosha looks at him with the calm confidence of someone filled with conviction. She has a soft and beautiful face, the godswife. A broad flat nose and warm brown eyes and a smile that must've charmed many men in her youth (and probably still does). But there's steel beneath that softness. She doesn’t need to insist; Grey Worm finds her a horse and off they go. The sun climbs the sky and bores down their backs, hot like fire. Hot like flames licking their flesh. Zosha rides in front of him, her silver-streaked black hair fluttering in the breeze.

Jon shudders and rides on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In show canon, Yara is bi. When Ellaria asks her whether she has a boy in every port, Yara says boy, girl, depends on the port. So she’s also bi in my fic.
> 
> Oh, and here's a photo of Kristofer Hivju without a beard, in case you have a hard time imagining a beardless Tormund: https://us.toluna.com/dpolls_images/2017/05/06/cb3e9f36-e3e8-410a-95ca-27242a89c591_x300.jpg


	21. Brothers, Dreams, and Butterflies Part II

She keeps dreaming about Jon. 

During the days she’s too busy being a mother, a friend, and a queen to think much about him at all, but once she’s in bed with her small family she can’t stop her thoughts from wandering to the one missing and those thoughts follow her into dreams and shape them.

They always start the same. Through a frost-kissed windowpane she sees an untouched winter world, its blanket of snow rising and falling like an ocean frozen solid on a windy day. Cloaked, she steps through the window and wanders the world, watering the lumps of snow with her tears until they thaw and reveal what lies beneath. She finds a rock, a stump, a dead fox. A wooden pail, a mole hill, a man. He looks as dead as the fox, winter-still and winter-pale, but when she touches his cheek her warmth seeps from her fingers and into his flesh. When she presses her hand against his chest it starts moving with breaths against her palm. When she calls his name so softly so gently, she hears her own name in return like a susurrus wind through the tree crowns laced above them.

He opens his eyes then, all warm and brown and bright, and her own blue eyes ask him, “ _Do you still love me?_ ”

When she’s lucky he folds her into his arms and lets his kisses reply, “ _I never stopped_.” She brings him home, home to their pack, home to their bed, and they fall asleep together, a tangle of limbs and love and family. When she wakes up from those dreams to find a toddler sprawled over her stomach and a big wolf pressed against her back and Jon still missing, she has to lie still for a long moment and wait for her mind to sweep away the remnants of those dreams until only reality remains.

When she’s not lucky--and she so rarely is--his unkissed lips reply, “ _Not enough._ ” Then they press against her forehead instead, faint as an echo, and whisper apologies as he burrows back beneath the snow.

Tonight, though, is different. Tonight she dreams of a wolf swimming through oceans to come back to her. A wolf shaking water from his fur before shedding his wolfskin and joining her and the little wolf and the big wolf beneath the heart-tree, its leaves red like blood and love and life against all the summer greens.

It feels so real she wakes with a smile on her face, cheeks aching, and sits up in bed eager to meet this new day. Eager to see Jon riding through the gates. He’s alive and he’s coming _home_ \--

A droning noise pulls her back to reality, to a night that has yet to end, and to an autumn still shaking leaves from the trees every time the winds draw their breaths. It's not morning nor summer and those are voices droning on outside her door. At this hour? It can't be danger or Ghost would've leapt to his paws instead of cracking an eye open to look at her before falling back asleep. Not can it be Jon for Ghost would've known that too. But the dream was _so_ vivid and she slips into her dressing gown with her breath caught in her throat, opens the door, and peers outside.

Two doors down stands Tormund, his hair a tousled mess, his doublet slung over his shoulder, the undershirt no longer tucked into his breeches. He’s leaning on his arm against the door frame, a lazy smirk on his lips. Then Sansa hears a quiet, “Now _go_ ,” and Brienne’s hand pushes at his chest. But she doesn’t sound like a woman rejecting an unwanted suitor; she sounds warm. As if he walked her to her chamber after a night of dancing and they’ve stood there for a while, knowing they should part, and kept talking nonetheless. Like Sansa and the wolf sword man used to do.

Only Brienne’s inside her chamber and the sliver of arm Sansa sees is bare.

No. No, it didn’t work. It can't've...

After another fond push, Tormund practically dances away into the dark while Brienne moves to close the door. She’s wearing nothing but the coverlet wrapped around her body, and her hair is tousled too.

Sansa gasps. Oh, it _did_.

Brienne’s eyes snap to hers, cheeks turning as red as apples. As red as the love bite low on her throat.

For a beat they do nothing but stare at one another. But then Brienne gathers herself and draws herself up, posture straight as a lance. “Did you need me, Your Grace?”

“No,” Sansa says, fighting a smile. “No, I did not. Good night, Brienne.”

When morning finally comes, Sansa isn’t surprised to find only Gilly and her children at the breakfast table. The men of Sansa’s inner circle are most likely nursing hangovers and Brienne will probably pretend to do so as well. It’s not as if they don’t have servants who can wash and dress the twins and take them to breakfast. However, when Septa Wenda and the twins join them so does Brienne, hair neatly combed and doublet laced all the way up, the collar tight around her throat. Only the dark circles beneath her eyes and her slightly sluggish movements betray that she was too busy entertaining a wildling in her bed to get much sleep.

Sansa presses her lips together to fight another smile. Brows lifted high, Brienne shakes out a napkin before draping it across her lap and reaching for a hard-boiled egg. She rolls it over the table, the shell crackling, and takes her time picking it clean before buttering a slice of toast with equal dedication. 

A feast usually leaves them with plenty to discuss over breakfast, but this morning little passes their lips but food and tea and breaths. Gilly seems too distracted by the children to notice (or even to eat breakfast herself). As if they can sense that the silence isn’t entirely comfortable, they’re even louder than usual. The twins make faces at one another and laughing at the results. Joy drops goodies for Ghost and howls and claps whenever he gobbles them up. And Little Sam rambles on about his lessons (he’s learning letters and has practiced by writing the names of every person he can think of and is very upset that everyone’s name starts with J except his). 

“Not everyone,” Gilly says with a sigh, saving a cup of fruit juice from being knocked over by Joy.

“ _Almost_ everyone. I should've gotten a J name too!"

"What, you would've liked for us to call you Jam, then?"

Little Sam scrunches up his nose. "Jam? Why would I be called Jam? That's not a name, is it?"

"Jam!" Joy bangs her fists on the table, bouncing in her chair. "I love jam! Jam jam jam!"

Laughing, Little Sam joins her in her chanting while the twins babble on in the incomprehensible language they’ve developed ever since they started cooing, and Sansa’s little cub whispers the alphabet with fierce focus while licking preserves off a slice of bread.

Brienne pales beneath the commotion. Usually, she would've gotten the twins under control by now, but Sansa supposes she can't have much energy left after a whole night with Tormund. She can't help but grin at that and, as if Brienne can read her mind, she shoots her a dark look that only makes Sansa's grin grow. Gilly, though, seems too distracted to notice. Casting longing looks at her porridge growing cold in its bowl, she keeps explaining to Little Sam what everyone is called and whom they are named for and why. She looks so tired too, poor thing. Right. With a firm voice, Sansa takes charge and soon the children's bellies are full, their hands, mouths, and cheeks wiped clean, and their legs carry them through the door with Septa Wenda and Ghost so they can play outside (and hopefully let their mothers chat about things unsuited for tiny ears).

Silence settles over the chamber like the softest blanket. Gilly finally grabs a spoon and scarfs down her bowl of porridge dotted with lingonberry preserves, and Brienne sags back in her chair with a sigh of relief, both hands wrapped around a steaming cup of tea and her eyes sliding to the door as if she expects Tormund to walk in at any moment. As if she fears it--or perhaps even wants it.

(When she notices Sansa noticing, her cheeks turn pink.)

Munching on an egg, Gilly smears butter and preserves on bread, adds a couple of strips of bacon, slaps another slice of bread atop it, and takes a big bite.

“What?” She chews, eyes flitting between Sansa and Brienne. “I’m eating for two.” Another bite, eyes still moving. Narrowing. “You two are acting really strange this morning. Did you have a fight? You did. What’s happened?”

Brienne exhales, resting her eyes on the tapestry depicting Sansa's parents' wedding. “You can tell her.”

“Well,” Sansa says and folds her forearms on the table so she can comfortably lean forward, “late last night--or should I say early this morning--I saw Brienne throwing Tormund out of her chamber.”

Gilly gasps. “You what?”

“I didn’t _throw_ him.” Brienne pours more tea into her cup and stirs in a dollop of honey. “It was all very civil.”

“Last I checked,” Sansa says, “ _civil_ doesn’t leave love bites on one’s throat.”

Brienne’s fingers fly to adjust her collar, her face a lofty mask.

"Brienne!" Gilly's eyes sparkle with delight. "Did you and Tormund..."

“It was a moment of weakness,” she says, head held high. But when Gilly snorts out a laugh, Brienne puts her cup back down with a clank, abashment painting her pale cheeks red. “He had _bathed_. And washed his hair and shaved off that ridiculous beard of his. You saw what he looked like!”

“I’m not sure.” Sansa smiles, innocent like a maid. “What did he look like?”

“Well,” Brienne says with a frustrated exhale. Then she tucks in her chin, directing a pointed look in Sansa’s direction. “The way _you_ made him look. Your Grace. Everyone was staring at him! Everyone! It wasn't just me."

“He looked like a prince from a story," Gilly says, kindly.

“Yes! Thank you, Gilly. He _did_ look like a prince from a story. And he danced with me. In the godswood, under the moonlight.” Brienne gestures at the ceiling with a flick of her wrist as if the moon still shone up above. “He made me feel like, like… a _girl_.”

Sansa leans back in her chair, hands folded in her lap. “I’m not quite sure whether you had a lovely time last night or whether you regret every moment of it.”

“Oh, I regret it. I regret it very much.” Brienne takes a breath, two, three; Sansa and Gilly look at her, quiet. Brienne fills herself with a big intake of air: “And I’m sure I’ll regret it next time as well.”

As one, Gilly and Sansa lean forward, their mouths dropped open with laughter.

Brienne purses her lips, looks away. “He’s _infuriatingly_ good at it. A man like that really has no business being _that_ good. And I do not want to know where he acquired those skills. If either of you know, kindly refrain from telling me."

For a beat she sits in her exaggerated indignation, her cheeks still tinged a deeper color than usual. But then she lets it out in a rush of breath, her tense shoulders dropping, and the lofty expression disappearing behind the soft curve of her mouth.

“And it was nice.” The words come out low and slow and warm. “For three years I’ve mourned a man who did not choose me. Who never would’ve chosen me. I know Jaime loved me, but he was never going to leave her. Not really. And Tormund… He loves me. He chooses me. No one has ever gone through that much trouble just for _me_.” She smiles a little, watching her hand turn the tea cup slowly until the handle faces right. “He was generous and attentive and it felt good. It felt good to be held and touched and loved. It’s been so long...” She picks up the cup, holding it in both hands and blowing on the tea. “Truthfully, I barely remembered what it felt like. But when Tormund held me, it was as if something…” She lifts the cup to her lips as if to drink only to put it down again and looking up at her rapt audience. “There was something missing and I didn’t know it. I didn’t know how lonely I had been until he reminded me of what it feels like to be loved.”

Sansa’s gaze drops to the crumbs on her plate, to the pool of butter that melted on her toast and seeped through the porous slice of bread, to the lonely bit of eggshell lying there when neither she nor her child had eggs.

“I never thought I needed this,” Brienne continues, “and I suppose I didn’t. It was easy to go without when I didn’t know what I was missing. But now… I love being a mother, I love being a knight, but it can’t be all I am.”

“You need to be a woman too,” Sansa says, quietly.

“Yes,” Brienne says. “I need to be a woman too. And I can’t spend the rest of my life mourning Jaime. I loved him, but he died in another woman’s arms and I have to move on. So, yes, I think I’ll let Tormund back into my bed.” She quirks her mouth wryly. “So long as he bathes.”

Sansa barely remembers what it felt like either, being held, being loved, being chosen. In the end she wasn't. Ever since, time has worn at the memories of that one precious night and now Sansa knows more than she remembers that it was wonderful. The memory of Jon’s face is fading too. The memory of his scent, his voice, his embrace. The memory of _him_. And yet she keeps clinging to it, clinging to every little hope she can find that maybe he’ll return to her because there was no body. Because they found Nick and Alyn. Because Bran had a dream. Because she doesn’t _want_ to move on. Because for her, there’s only Jon--

Her chest constricts and her eyes sting with tears she doesn’t know whether she can stop when her thoughts insist on taking these turns. But then Tormund saves her by walking into the room like a child braving his parents’ solar after an argument, his shoulders a little hunched and his head slightly bowed and his eyes wide like the plates on the table.

“Morning,” he murmurs and shuffles farther into the room, gaze bouncing between Sansa and Gilly, and the available seats. The one next to Brienne is empty. He swallows.

“They know,” Brienne says.

He exhales his relief and sits down next to her, shooting her besotted glances as he piles onto his plate strips of bacon, eggs, slices of bread and ham, a fried fish, a big glob of preserves, a smaller glob of strong Dornish mustard, and two apples. Then he grabs the fork like a spear, pierces the ham, and lifts. There he stops. Grins with a grunting kind of noise. Shifts the fork to his left hand and picks up the knife with his right and daintily cuts into his breakfast, smearing a little mustard over a piece of ham.

Brienne looks as if part of her wants to roll her eyes and another part of her wants to smile. “You can eat however you like,” she says, softly.

“I know,” he says, just as softly.

He’s still wearing the clothes Sansa sewed him, the undershirt now neatly tucked into his breeches and the doublet properly laced. The hair is wilder than yesterday and stubble covers his chin, but he smells clean of soap.

Gilly smiles at him. “You like your new clothes, then?”

“Not too bad. Easier to move in.” He smiles too with an impish arch of his brow. “I danced like a prince.”

“Yes,” Sansa says. “We’ve heard all about your _dancing_.”

Brienne glares at her; Tormund shines like a polished coin.

“I wish Jon were here to see you like this, so handsome."

"Nah." Tormund points at her with his fork, mustard dripping from the ham. “He would’ve told me to stop this shit because there’s only room for one pretty boy in Winterfell.” He throws his head back with a hearty laugh before returning to his breakfast. “Then again, he might’ve been too busy throttling Arreld to notice. I heard you two danced _all_ night.”

“Not all night,” Sansa says.

“Maybe you should.” Beneath Tormund’s teasing smile, there’s a serious note. “He’s liked you ever since the day you showed up at Castle Black. Thought you were the prettiest thing he’d ever seen. He never liked spearwives much. He likes them delicate and all that, womenfolk. A rare thing among my people.”

“Is he the one with dark hair and blue eyes?” Brienne says. “He’s rather handso--”

“What are you doing?” Gilly scowls at them. “Why are you telling her these things? What about Jon?”

Brienne shoots Tormund a look, nodding at him almost imperceptibly. Tormund sighs and lays down his cutlery.

“Gilly,” he says, “you know what life’s like beyond the Wall. How cold the winters get--”

“Stop it. What about Nick and Alyn? Did you hear about them? They showed up. Jon will show up too. Sam says he _always_ comes back.”

As Sansa looks into Gilly’s earnest eyes pleading at them to keep hope alive, she feels her own hope crumbling beneath the weight of a resolve that must've been building for a long time and she's refused to acknowledge until now. 

No, she didn’t lie to Tyrion. She’s not alone. She’s not unhappy. She’s not miserable. Her life is full. And she _is_ lonely, so achingly lonely. All those things can be true at once. 

“Jon might be out there,” she says. “It’s true. He might be. But if he is, it means he’s chosen to leave everything behind and start over. He even left Ghost, Gilly. If he’s alive, he’s not Jon Snow anymore. He’s chosen to be someone else. And I can’t begrudge him that. I’ve wanted to run away so many times. But I haven’t had the luxury. He did. As far as he knew, he had no responsibilities and he made me no promises. He was free to leave.”

“But if he knew,” Gilly says. “He would come home if he knew. We have to find him and tell him!”

Sansa shakes her head. “The world is a big place. I’m not going to keep men from their families for years just to comb through the entire known world in hopes of finding one man. If Jon is alive, he knows where we live. But… I don’t think he is.” The resolve settles like a lump of oatmeal in her stomach. “If we’ve not heard from him before next summer ends, I’m going to commission a statue and put it in the crypts. I’m going to officially declare Jon dead and move on. Truly move on this time.”

The silence that settles over the chamber now is not soft as a blanket but heavy and cold like a thick sheet of ice. Tormund doesn’t even return to eating. They all just sit there, staring at their plates in glum silence. Only when the door opens again and Edmure, Robin, and Bran come inside to eat does the silence break.

  
  


* * *

  
  


When Sansa and her siblings were little, Theon taught them to play _Hungry Kraken and the Seastone Chair_. And while he’s no longer here to teach the next generation of Winterfell children, Sansa has made sure to pass it on and the children love it as much as she and her siblings did. She’s not out in the courtyard playing today, however. She and Brienne look on from the balcony as Tyrion and Tormund entertain the four little ones. With screams one part hysterical and two parts delighted, they try to escape Tyrion chasing after them with his fingers wiggling like kraken arms. Their only safe harbor is the Seastone Chair. Usually, an object is chosen (like a stump or a rock or a low-hanging branch) but as the Winterfell four are so little, Tormund plays the Seastone Chair and scoops up whichever child is being chased and holds them aloft until Tyrion has set his eyes on a different child. Then Tormund puts down the one he’s holding and so the game goes on, the children’s laughter ringing through the courtyard.

“It took them a moment,” Brienne says. “When he came out there without his beard.” She smiles as she watches Tormund tossing Joanna in the air, her golden locks bouncing beneath the hem of her white wool hat. “He’s so good with them--and they _adore_ him.”

_But do you adore him?_

Sansa turns her back to the courtyard so she can look at Brienne properly. “What did you tell him? Does he know you don’t love him? Tormund might be an acquired taste, but he is a good man. I don’t want to see his heart broken.”

“I have no desire to break his heart. And I was so certain I could never give him mine, certain enough I told him it wouldn’t mean anything--I really did tell him, Sansa--but last night…”

Brienne leaves the railing and Sansa follows her into the shadows of a corner where Brienne speaks in a lower voice as if she’s worried her words will carry down to the courtyard.

“He surprised me. I didn’t think he was like that. But when he had no people around him to whom he had to be Tormund Giantsbane, fucker of bears, he was different. Calmer. Vulnerable. We even talked, afterwards. About life and love and loss. About moving on. And I liked it. I liked…” She frowns and lifts her shoulders in an almost bemused shrug. “I liked him. And, believe me, I am just as surprised as you are."

“But do you like him enough to choose him?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what will happen but…” She looks at Sansa, blue eyes so gentle and kind it hurts a little. “Moving on isn’t so bad.”

Sansa puts a smile on her face. “It’s barely been a day, Brienne."

“I know. But I feel so much lighter already. You will too. I think you’re making the right choice, Your Grace.”

Down in the courtyard, Tyrion manages to catch Jaime and tickle him until he falls to the ground and howls with laughter. Sansa's little wolf cringes and, hands covering ears, searches the courtyard for a different safe harbor, sees Bran speaking with Edmure about something or other, and runs to his chair and climbs up to his lap to rest. They look so sweet together Sansa's teeth ache.

The new Grand Maester claims Bran might be able to have children after all. With that unaffected voice of his, her little brother told her about some sort of metal rings that could help him maintain an erection and she told him she really did not need to know the specifics. There’s no guarantee, though, and Arya...

The duty to bring more little Starks to the world seems to rest mostly on Sansa’s shoulders--and it’s a duty she welcomes. She _wants_ more children. She loves being a mother. And she knows what it’s like to grow up with plenty of siblings--and she knows what it’s like to be alone.

She knows what she would choose.

She nods to herself, the heavy feeling in her gut dissolving until she too feels... perhaps not light, not quite that free, but _lighter_. Yes, she is making the right choice.

Little Sam and Gilly come out from the keep, then, and the boy joins the frey. His lesson with Wolkan must’ve ended. Soon the rest of the children will be old enough to start their lessons too. She’ll need to hire a tutor, though. If Gilly stays here indefinitely, Wolkan won’t have the time to teach them all. Not even with Wenda’s help.

Hands stroking her bump, Gilly joins Bran and Edmure but keeps her eyes on the children as they play. There’s something faraway, almost wistful in her expression. And it dawns on Sansa that while Gilly isn’t literally a widow, she _has_ lost Sam--and yet she never complains. How could she? The man she loves is neither dead nor missing, merely absent. But isn’t that its own heartache?

Once Sansa’s guests have all left and Winterfell sinks back into its everyday routine, she invites Gilly on a stroll through the godswood, just the two of them, their arms linked and their boots crunching fallen autumn leaves. After encouraging Gilly to open up, she learns the maesters were not alone in finding Gilly and the children a nuisance. Sam did too. As if their attitude infected him like a disease that ate away his gentleness, he often snapped at his family and found their mere presence a disturbance when he needed to _focus_.

“One day Joy was singing. Just singing. And Sam yelled at her to please shut up already. She started crying and he stormed out of our chamber. I tried to talk to him later that evening, when the children slept. And it got better for a while but then… The maesters keep telling him he needs to be better or they’ll give his place to someone else. Someone who actually wants it. I think they drive him harder than the others. Because of me and the children.” She sniffles, hugging Sansa’s arm closer to her. “I’m sorry. I think it’s why I’ve refused to accept that Jon is gone. I couldn’t stand the thought that none of us could have it all. A happy ending, like in a story. I didn’t realize I only made it harder for you. And the way I went on about the name!”

Sansa strokes Gilly’s forearm. “I'm worried about you. You sound as if you’ve given up on your own happy ending.”

“I used to support him and defend him when Talla called him selfish. His father never wanted him to be a maester, see. Said no Tarly should ever wear a maester’s chain. Randyll even chained him to a wall once, for three days, just to punish that dream away. He was a horrible man--and I know what it’s like to have a horrible man for a father. I understand why Sam wants to defy him and wear his maester’s chain with pride. I do understand it. But I don’t understand how me and the children are going to fit into that life. What lord would want Sam when he comes with a family? Now that I’ve seen the way Wolkan works… He’s always busy! He’d never have time for a family of his own. I’d be alone in a strange place again where no one wants us."

They’ve reached the godswood clearing where the heart-tree stands, white and red and ancient, and there’s no better place to make a promise. Sansa leads Gilly closer to the tree until they stand among its roots, close enough to touch its pale bole.

“You’re wanted here,” she says. “And so is Sam, if you still want him.”

“Of course I want him--but only if he’s _my_ Sam. I can't even remember the last time I saw Joy and Little Sam laughing like that with him. He’s in there somewhere, though, I know he is. But he wants to be more than a husband and father. He won’t be happy just doing nothing.”

“Leave that to me. I’ll find a way.” Smiling, Sansa lays her hand over the face carved into the tree. “I promise.”

That evening Sansa unwinds alone in front of her loom. She always thinks best when she sews or knits or weaves. And as her fingers weave a tapestry, weave a perfect picture of something that will never happen, her mind weaves a new future for Gilly and Sam.

* * *

Jon dreams of Sansa again. She’s bathing in Drogon’s flames, her skin and flesh sluicing off her bones. Her pale bony fingers still reach for him when he wakes. As has become his habit, he sneaks out of the tent and into the still night. Paces until the remnants of the nightmares fade away.

They’ll be at Drogon’s lair in two weeks and then…

He stares up at the stars as if he can find answers written in the space between them but there’s nothing but black. Jon sighs and returns to the tent.

As always Grey Worm is awake, but tonight he’s not lying down but sitting on his bedroll with his legs criss-cross, waiting for Jon.

“Nightmares,” he says in a tone of voice that suggests Grey Worm has them too. Or had, perhaps. “You leave often. Almost every night.”

“Yeah.” Jon sits down too and rubs his stubbly jaw. “I can’t escape them. No matter how far I run. I keep dreaming about Drogon burning things. Cities, villages, the people I love.”

Two days ago they passed a settlement that was nothing but ashes, melted stone, and charred bones. They’ll pass more on their way. Apparently, Drogon has burned any village or outpost within a seven day riding distance from his lair, as if to tell those pesky humans this stretch of the desert is his domain.

“You need to kill him. You cannot move on until he is dead.” Grey Worm stares into the brazier, his eyes shining like obsidian in the light of the flame. “I should have killed Drogon. I should have killed _her_. Sometimes I thought, what she is saying is wrong, what she is doing is wrong, but I…” His jaw clenches, his fists clenching too. “I was taught to obey my master without question. So I killed my questions instead.”

A shiver runs through Jon. Daenerys never told him about the Unsullied, how they were made, but by now Jon has heard all the horrifying stories. How they’re stolen as children or even babes. How they learn nothing but violence and pain, suppressing every kind impulse until they’re hard as flint, suppressing every individual thought until they’re one large fist with no dreams or desires of their own.

“Did you know?” Jon asks. “That she was your master.”

Grey Worm shakes his head. “I thought I was free. I wore the name my masters gave me with pride for it was the name I had the day Daenerys Stormborn came to Astapor and freed us. It all changed when I came to Naath.”

He leaves the bedroll and rummages through the saddlebags, finding one of their last skins of cactus wine and taking a swig before handing it to Jon. Jon drinks too. Hands it back. Then they drink together, the skin passing back and forth, as Grey Worm talks.

* * *

When they lay in bed together, Missandei and him, he would ask her: what is the word for arm in your language? The word for hands, for eyes, for lips? What is the word for love, for smiles, for happiness? What is the word for I, for you, for we? What is the word for family?

When he reached Naath he’d learned enough to explain who he was and why he had come. He knew the names of her parents and siblings too. He knew the name of the village the slave traders burned when they came to Missandei’s island and stole her away.

He never expected to find them, her family. Missandei didn’t remember much of that day, but she remembered enough to know her motherand two of her brothers were taken too. But the slavers put the children on one ship and the adults on another, and once they reached Astapor she was separated from her brothers as well. She never saw her family again, but he found them. Not her mother nor any of her brothers, no, but the ones left behind: her father, two sisters, and a grandmother. And plenty of other relatives. 

That first night in Naath, over plum wine and a skewer of grilled mushrooms and fruit, in front of a crackling fire shining upon faces where he saw Missandei’s eyes and Missandei’s nose and Missandei’s lips, he told them everything. He told them of Kraznys mo Nakloz. Of Daenerys Targaryen. Of the wars of Westeros. Of how Missandei died.

He told them how he did nothing to save her. How he just stood there and watched her die in chains.

He wanted them to howl their grief and hurl themselves at him, beat him with their fists, claw him with their nails. He wanted them to hold him down, cut his chest open, and rip his heart from his body, still beating, still broken. He wanted them to punish him.

“But they did not,” he whispers. “They took me in. They forgave me. They loved me.”

His eyes sting with tears; he blinks them away.

For half a year they stayed, he and his men, and they learned how to be Naathi. They learned all the things the masters had beaten out of them. They spent their days not patrolling the beach or standing guard or ignoring hunger and pain and cold and heat. No, they wove baskets and forged for fruits and roots and herbs. They used knives only to dice the vegetables grown in the gardens, to carve bowls out of which they ate, and to carve flutes too on which they learned to play melodies. The only drums they heard were drums for dancing instead of marching. The only touches they exchanged were soft and caring. And at night, around bonfires, they listened to stories that taught them how to cry.

That was the hardest lesson. The one he resisted the most. The one he preferred to practice alone. But he did practice and, one day, Missandei’s father told him they were ready to dance with the butterflies. 

There’s a disease, a fever, spread by the largest among the Naathi butterflies that will kill even the strongest of men. But many lifetimes ago, the Lord of Harmony whispered a cure into the ear of a wise woman. And that recipe has been handed down from mother to daughter for thousands of years. Once taken the butterfly fever can never harm you. Missandei’s grandmother and nieces brewed draughts and let them drink. Then they took them deeper into the island, to a valley filled with birds and flowers and butterflies, and there they played and sang and danced.

There they learned how to be free. 

“I understood then,” he says. “What Daenerys was. I had not been free. I had been what Kraznys mo Nakloz made me: a weapon. I did not want to be a weapon any longer. But I could not stay on Naath either. Missandei’s family had given me a gift. I wanted to return it to people like me. Missandei would've wanted me to.”

“Missandei’s Haven,” Jon says.

He nods, smiling to himself. “Before I left, Missandei’s family asked if they could give me a new name. Grey Worm was my slave name and now I was a free man. I told them it would be my honor to carry any name they chose. They are the ones who named me Marselen.”

His throat feels thick with emotion, his chest thigh with it. Even after all this time, despite everything he's learned, this will never stop being difficult. Showing this part of himself. Letting tears fall freely from his eyes in front of others. Marselen waits until the swell of emotion has abated. Only when he knows his voice will carry again, he looks up at Jon and tells him,

“It means ‘beloved brother.’”

* * *

  
  


It happens on a beautiful and rather typical winter day in the North. The sun shines, the snow glitters, the wind blows only a little. Red-breasted birds sing on snow-lined branches. Snowshoe hares nibble on crusty leaves still clinging to bushes and saplings. Winter town children pack the wet snow into balls and roll them over the fields to make snow knights. Sansa, Brienne, Gilly, and the children are there too, pressing carrots and black stones into snow-faces to make noses and eyes.

And then everything stills. Sansa should’ve known, then. She should’ve known when the birds quieted and the hares disappeared. She should’ve known a cloud didn’t roll over the sun when a great shadow fell over them. She should’ve known before the snow whirled up around them and the ground trembled beneath them and the air reeked of sulfur. 

But Sansa hadn’t thought about Drogon in months. There had been no sightings. The guards manning the Scorpions had become less diligent. People no longer watched the sky. And now he’s here, so close she can feel the heat of him (so far from Winterfell the bolts of the Scorpions would never reach him).

Her arms wrap around her little wolf, a compact bundle of furs and wool and the best parts of her and the man she still loves.

Behind her she hears the scrambling of weapons drawn. The two guards who followed them readying themselves to fight, Brienne drawing Oathkeeper, but what can they do? Drogon’s yellow fangs are huge, as tall as a toddler. He must’ve doubled in size, free to eat and grow and eat and grow without anyone or anything holding him back.

His snout comes closer and closer. Sansa can’t breathe. Should she pick up her child and run? Will that only make his instincts kick in and chase after them? Burn them? Eat them?

A mitten-clad hand stretches out toward the scaly flesh. Drogon sniffs and lets out a breath that reeks of rotten meat.

“Go away,” Sansa whispers, her voice trembling even more than her legs. “Please leave.”

“Go away,” a little voice echoes. “Go away! Don’t scare Mama!”

Snow groans beneath soldier boots. Drogon’s eyes shift to the fighters behind her and a low growl rumbles in his throat. She understands, then, why he’s come. She understands that when he sniffed at them he wasn’t a predator but a… She has no word for it, refuses to call this monster a pet or even a companion. He's nothing like Ghost, and yet it's from Ghost she knows that change--the change at a perceived threat from curious and friendly to predator--and she’s filled with the strangest calm.

“Stand down,” she says, voice loud and clear. “Don’t antagonize him or he will burn us all.”

Drogon sniffs, sniffs at the dragon blood coursing through tiny veins, sniffs at the blood relative to his mother.

“Go away,” her little wolf repeats, hand pushing at the snout. “Please, dragon. Fly away. Fly _home_."

Drogon blinks, pulls back. Sansa holds her breath. _Please. Please obey._

When his mighty wings finally flap, the air knocks them back into the snow and the fear keeps them there as Drogon soars higher and higher and farther and farther away. The ground before them is soggy from melted snow. Her cheeks are wet from tears she never felt falling. Exhaling her relief, Sansa hugs her child close. Her _wolf_. Her wonderful little wolf who smells of wool and snow and sunshine.

After that day, they see Drogon more often. Never close enough the Scorpions can reach him--and never for long either. Can’t stand the cold, she supposes. Still, Sansa keeps her little wolf inside Winterfell’s walls. It would be so easy for that monster to grab someone small with his great talons, fly away, and turn a wolf into a dragon and have a rider again.

 _Not my child_ , she thinks. _You will not have my child._

For the first time in her life, Sansa prays for winter to last a long, long time.

  
  


* * *

  
  


They’ve camped close to Drogon’s lair for almost a month when one of Marselen’s men scout a big black shape in the sky. One that grows a little too big a little too fast to be even the largest bird. Still they wait. He carried prey in his talons and they’ll give him time to feed and grow drowsy before they act.

“When this is all over,” Marselen asks, “what will you do?”

Jon shrugs. “I haven’t given it much thought.”

“Lady Stark?”

“No. I might visit one day, but I’m not…”He swallows. “That part of my life is over. It’s time I move on.”

“I understand.” Marselen lays a hand on his shoulder. “There could be a place for you, in Meereen. You would never have a king’s kind of wealth or power--not even a lord’s. But you would have a home, a job, and you would get paid. You could be one of us.”

“Yeah,” Jon says with a lopsided smile. “Maybe I could.”

In the distance Drogon descends. His lair is located in a caldera, its walls too sharp and steep to climb. The only ways in are either from the air or through a narrow tunnel. The _Abrar Mīsio_ scoped the place out when they found it. Briefly, they considered building a Scorpion and bringing it here, but they would only risk angering the beast. Their best bet is Jon and the Targaryen blood running in his veins. 

That blood roars, pumped by a racing heart, when he sneaks into the tunnel with Longclaw hidden in its sheath. Behind him comes Marselen on light feet. They alone enter the lair; they alone have touched the beast before and lived.

Jon never spent enough time around the dragons to properly read them well. But as he traipses closer to the beast soaking up sunlight like a fat cat, Drogon’s nostrils flare with an intake of breath--and when the beast opens his eyes and looks at Jon, Jon could swear he looks… happy. There’s something catlike about him too when he rises to his paws, stretches out his body leisurely, pushes aside the bones he just cleaned of meat, and moves closer to Jon as if expecting scratches. And when Jon reaches out a shaky hand and gives him those scratches along his jaw, Drogon’s eyes slide shut. As if he’s been just as lonely and touch-starved as Jon.

But then they are the last of their kind. The last dragon--and the last Targaryen.

He takes his time, stroking Drogon’s scales, lulling him into a sense of calm and safety, feeling the dragon relax beneath his touch.

He even enjoys it, just a bit.

He could ride him, he thinks. He could climb atop this great beast and fly him over the world, over the oceans. He could find Arya. He could fly over Winterfell and over Whitetree and see how they’re faring. He could fly to Astapor and Yunkai and take care of the masters and then to Qarth and Volantis and every place left where bad people rule. He could get seduced by the power crackling beneath these scales. He could grow attached and ignore that Drogon was raised to burn people and cities and life. He could ignore that many of the bones littered around the lair are human. He could forget the villages they passed that had been burned to the ground. He could repeat all the mistakes of the ones who came before him. He could be no better than the rest.

Still stroking Drogon’s snout, Jon’s hand wraps around the wolf-shaped hilt of Longclaw.

Behind him Marselen sneaks closer too. One in each eye. That’s what they decided. Quick and easy and final.

Their eyes meet. Jon nods. And, as one, they strike.

Jon never has time to understand what happens next. All he knows is that Drogon convulses and twitches just like men do when they die. That he and Marselen step back reflexively. That what Jon does after that is a reflex too.

He feels the heat, the stench of dragon breath, and sees everything turn a little brighter. And without thinking, he throws himself in front of Marselen like a shield. Searing pain flows over his body for he might have the blood of the dragon, but he isn’t one. In his heart he is a wolf and that is how he’ll die, with Longclaw still in his hand, dragon blood dripping from its blade, while Marselen will return to the woman who loves him and the boy who’ll call him father.

Jon has no future. The people who would mourn him most likely already believe him dead. At least Xanna and Marselen will get their happy ending.

It’s just the flash of a thought. A comfort as swift as a heartbeat. And then the world fades away and when the black nothingness welcomes Jon back at last it feels like a relief.

_I’ve lived too long._

* * *

Despite Sansa’s prayers, winter thaws into heavy rainfalls that wash away the snow and color the world in the hues of spring. A moon has passed since Drogon last was sighted. She still keeps her little wolf close and her eyes on the sky. And at night, when she's unlucky, she dreams of Drogon spiriting away everyone she holds dear.

On a bright day, when the wind and the sun compete in drying the long grass on the fields outside, Sam rides through the gates. His hair has grown long enough to be tied back with a leather string and he has grown a little leaner. Beneath the rosiness the wind has beaten into his cheeks, Sansa sees a pallidness to his skin. He’s never been a sunkissed man, but now he looks almost sickly. 

When he greets his family, Joy no longer knows him and hides behind her mother’s skirts. Little Sam bows to him and calls him lord father. Gilly gives him a dry kiss to one corner of his mouth that lasts barely longer than a heartbeat.

As Big Sam follows his family inside, he hangs his head like a dog who’s relieved himself where he shouldn't and expects a kick as punishment.

Supper is an awkward affair of polite small talk. He updates them on his studies; they update him on life at Winterfell. Gilly wants Sansa to talk to him, she knows, but she gives him time to find a ghost of his old self in these halls and let it possess him before she invites him to her office to make her offer.

He’s been here almost a fortnight, then. Joy now hugs him and kisses his cheeks. She sits in his lap in the evenings. And Little Sam calls him _papa_. The color has returned to Big Sam’s cheeks, and the warmth to Gilly’s eyes when she looks upon him.

When Sansa offers him refreshments, he shakes his head. He sits stiffly in his chair and his eyes won’t stop moving about the room. He’s clever enough to know he’s here to speak with the Queen rather than Sansa and she knows he won’t say a word until she begins.

“After Jon and I took back Winterfell," she says, "he only had one thing on his mind: the Night King. It was all he could see. He had no patience for anything else and his temper ran short because of it. It frustrated me that he refused to plan for the future, that he refused to plan even for winter. Whenever I tried to broach the subject with him, he said: ‘It’ll have to wait until after, if there is an after.’” She looks at Sam kindly. “You remind me of him. At least from what Gilly tells me.”

"Huh." Sam nods with a nervous smile. “I've dreamed of this, you know. Being told I'm like Jon. And now it finally happens and it's an insult."

“I'm not trying to insult you, Sam. I'm trying to ask you whether you have given 'after' any thought."

“Suppose it’s only right. Gilly has no family to ask for my intentions.”

“I don’t think I need to tell you you’ll struggle to find a position with a wife and three children--or however many you'll have by the time you’re ready to serve someone.”

“Really, if you think about it, it shouldn't be impossible. Some might even see it as an asset. And I certainly have some connections."

“But is that what you want? To be constantly torn between the family you serve and the family you love. If a sickness comes to the castle, that lord will demand that you prioritize him and his family over your own. Is that something you can do?”

Sam's only reply is an unconvinced curve of his mouth and a dropped gaze.

Sansa opens the drawer holding her notebook and takes it out. After finding the right page, she hands the open notebook to Sam (and notices how he carefully wipes his hands before accepting it).

“Jon was never allowed to be a king," she says. "Not really. He had to be a general. But I am very fortunate to rule in times of peace. I have no Night King to defeat. Unlike Jon I can afford to think about 'after.' And that”--she nods at the book--”is a list of all the things I want to accomplish during my rule. All the ways I can think of to make the North a better place for my people. By now it’s three pages long and it will only grow.”

Sam taps at one of the crossed-out entries. “Accomplished some already, I see.” 

“That list is my future. My professional future. Is becoming a maester the only thing you see for yourself? Have you no other dreams?”

He shrugs. “I always wanted to be a wizard. Bit difficult, though.”

“Yes,” Sansa says, smiling. “I imagine it is.”

“Horn Hill is Talla’s now. I was never meant to be a lord. I don’t want to lead; I want to support.” He nods again, repeatedly, as if willing her to understand. “I want to do some good in the world. What else is there then but maester?”

“If that’s how you feel, I will do my all to help you find a suitable position for you and your family. One where they will be accepted. But… As you can see, one of the entries on that list is _Winterfell library_. Ours has burned three times in recent years. It’s in a sorry state. I want to repair it and expand it. I want it to be huge and fill it with books from all over the world. Books about stories and science and history. But Wolkan is the Grand Maester of the North. He’s much too busy. To accomplish this goal I need to hire someone dedicated purely to the library. Someone who _loves_ books. Someone who’d happily spend the rest of his days curating a vast collection and helping anyone looking for information and, of course, reading as much as he likes. Gilly has even suggested that, perhaps, we could offer lessons in letters and numbers for those who want it. What I need is a master of books and learning.”

Sam stares down at the list in his hands, his lips slightly parted, his chest moving with quiet breaths.

“This project is important to me,” Sansa says. “I would never offer you this position unless I believed you’d be perfect for it.”

“Master of books and learning.” He looks up from the list, nervous smile back on his face. “Has a nice ring to it, I suppose.”

“But not as nice as Grand Maester.”

"Well."

“You don’t have to answer me today. Think about it--truly think about it--and discuss it with Gilly. Then return to me.”

* * *

Gilly’s water breaks a dreary afternoon when thick rain clouds have colored everything gray. They’re still a few hours from midnight when Hazel Tarly enters the world, her head bald and her eyes brown and her name honoring a grandmother she’ll never meet. Big Sam has barely held her in his arm for a heartbeat before he looks at Sansa with tear-filled eyes and tells her that library idea sounds rather lovely. 

“I always did love books,” he adds, beaming.

It’s not just the rush of love one feels for a newborn child speaking, either. Days have passed since she made her offer and Sam has spent those days playing with his children, discussing the matter with Gilly and Wolkan, and inspecting the library and its nowadays sorry collection. He was already balancing on the edge of decision, leaning heavily toward Winterfell, when Hazel came into the world. She was merely the final push he needed to stop wavering.

Sansa returns to her bed chamber tired, happy, and too wound up to sleep. After washing and changing into her nightrail, she turns to her solar where she stokes life back into the dying fire, and lights enough candles to help her see. Then she pulls a shawl over her shoulders and settles down by her loom. It’s the biggest piece she’s ever made. She’s worked on it for months and will work on it for a few months more before she’s finally done.

By her estimate, it will be at the end of summer.

So far she’s only ever chosen to depict real events, but with this piece she chose an image from her dreams. One that haunts her less and less the more she weaves: Jon and her and their child beneath the heart-tree, Ghost stretched out by their feet. A representation of the happily ever after she’ll never experience. Something tangible for her to put in Jon’s empty coffin and bury beneath the stone feet of his statue.

No matter how much she weaves, she’ll never bring him back to life. It's too late for her and Brienne, but it wasn't too late for Gilly. At least she and Sam will get their happy ending.

It’ll have to do.

* * *

Jon floats in a sea of milk of the poppy, bobbing along on waves cool and gentle. Seafowl sing to him. Fish nibble at his skin. Rain pitter-patter against his body. Sometimes the drops are as cool and gentle as the waves. Other times they burn like fire or sting like salt in a wound. Whenever he manages to open his eyes the world looks hazy, as if seen through golden gauze. The way his family always looks in his dreams. Not quite real. And yet he can feel Sansa's hands close around his body and pull him ashore. He can smell the rosewater scent of her skin, feel her silky hair brushing against his face, see the sunshine of her smile when she cares for him.

“You’re too good to me,” he murmurs.

“To heal is my calling,” she says. “But to heal the Dragonslayer? That is my honor.”

That doesn’t sound right, but he’s drifting off again before he can pinpoint why. Now he no longer floats in a sea but rests on a blanket beneath the heart-tree, Sansa warm and soft against his side and their son lies sprawled over them. Ghost is there too, bigger than Jon’s ever seen him. He can smell the wild scent of his fur, feel his wet muzzle nosing at him, see the gold of his eyes and that’s not right either. Ghost has red eyes. Red like the weirwood leaves that don’t flutter in the breeze above him like he thought.

He’s in a hut. The woman tending to him is Zosha. He’s in Essos. Right. He remembers now. He never died, only passed out from the pain, and is back at the Lhazareen village. The sea wasn’t a sea but whatever they put him in once he was well enough to be moved.

“I think you are ready to take a walk. A very short walk.” She hands him a walking stick. “This will help.”

Recovery is a slow process. Even if there’s scarring the burns have healed surprisingly well (but then he remembers some chanting that must’ve been magic). His strength, however, has waned during these weeks of healing. He has to work hard to become fit for riding again. To his surprise Marselen and his men stay through all of it.

Once they’re finally back in the saddle to make their slow way back to Meereen, he says, “You could’ve gone back home. I was in good hands.”

Marselen shakes his head. “Is that the kind of man you think I am? You are our brother now, Jon Snow. We leave no brothers behind.”

Every night when they make camp, Marselen trains with him. Helps him exercise the strength back into his arms and legs and back and stomach. By the time the walls of Meereen stand before them Jon feels almost like himself again. A little shaky, aye, but that’s all.

When news spread of the _Abrar Mīsio’s_ return, the streets fill with people celebrating. It’s not a planned feast with carefully prepared dishes and parades but unbridled joy inspiring the city to sing and dance and drink and feast. And when they raise their glasses and cheer to the Dragonslayers, it’s Marselen they look at. It’s Marselen they smile at. It’s Marselen they love. And Jon knows he could stay here forever. No one would ever look to him for leadership or protection or solutions. In Meereen people would leave him be. He could make friends and meet a pretty girl and have a family. He could find happiness.

It’s tempting--it is--but this place is too cramped and loud for Jon’s wolf blood, and the sun too sweltering for his flame-licked skin. And when he watches Marselen gazing at Xanna as if she shone brighter than the stars above, Jon knows he’s not there yet. He’s not ready to move on and find someone else. But Marselen is and Jon tells him so.

“I missed her more than I expected,” Marselen says without taking his eyes off her. 

She’s dancing with her sisters beneath the open sky to the music of ouds and drums, their dresses swaying.

“Then go get her.”

“I will. Tomorrow. When we are both sober and alone.” 

“I hope you’ll be very happy together. You deserve it.”

Marselen looks at him, then, really looks at him. “You are not staying.”

“No, I’m not. I need something else. Braavos, I think.” Jon makes himself laugh. “It’s too bleeding hot here.”

Marselen isn’t much for hugging. The next day when he walks Jon to the city gates himself, they say goodbye with their hands clasped around one another’s wrists and exchange a promise that if one ever finds himself in the other’s city, he'll seek him out and have an ale.

“You’ll probably have to pay, though,” Jon says with a crooked smile. “Don’t expect I’ll be very rich.”

“I will pay,” Marselen says, smiling too. “Goodbye, Jon Snow.”

“Goodbye, Marselen.”

Jon rides away with a purse full of enough gold to take him comfortably to Braavos and finding himself a good room to let as well. He takes his time finding a job, rejecting offers to work as a guard for rich merchants or expensive courtesans. They might pay well, those jobs, but there’s too much standing around in one’s own thoughts. Instead he waits until he finds a position as a stevedore in one of the better docks. It’s honest work where he can use his body and he goes to bed so exhausted he never struggles to fall asleep. If the dreams return, he doesn’t remember them when he wakes. And he never wakes in the middle of the night from dreams of fire despite the state of his body.

He’s ready, then, he decides. For two weeks he tries his best to write Sansa a letter. Drogon is dead, that’s not so hard, is it? But everything else… How does he explain everything else? Crumpled page after crumbled page find their way into the fireplace. He runs out of ink and parchment. Dips into his coin purse. Visits a shop. Tries again. Falls asleep over the empty barrel he uses for a table, his fingers ink-stained and his heart aching beneath its scars.

No, he’s not ready. To move on, yes, to find a life and some sort of happiness. But not to have her presence in that life and remind him of all the things he could’ve had if only he’d made better choices.

Perhaps he’ll write to Bran instead.

Dawn has yet to break when Jon leaves the room for cobblestone streets cloaked in the fog slinking in from the lagoon. People whose work days start as early as his are leaving their homes too, candles and hearths and oil lamps spilling light out the doors as they come and go. Jon always likes this time of day the best. When everything is busy but quiet and sleepy and nothing feels quite real. He empties his mind, then, and lets his feet take him where he needs to go, body moving by rote.

It’s why it takes him a moment to register what he’s seeing. They fit in too well, the married couple saying goodbye before the husband leaves for work. It's not the wife who gives him pause. She looks like any other Braavosi woman, her straw-colored hair twisted into two buns at the top of her head and her shoulders draped with a fishnet shawl. And at first, as the husband kisses her on the lips and strokes her round belly goodbye, he looks like any other Braavosi man with his spacious breeches and leather jerkin over a linen undershirt.

But then he turns around and his hair is black and his eyes are blue and the smile lingering on his lips--the happy smile of a young man in love who's in want of nothing--are all too familiar in this still not entirely familiar place.

Conscious thought never really enters Jon’s mind. His body turns around and marches him straight back to the room he lets, grabs his things, straps Longclaw to his hip, and heads back to the harbor. When he reaches his place of work, his body keeps going, ignoring the shouted, " _Oi, where are you off to, then? Get to work, Snow,_ " of his foreman.

Ships rest on the still surface, mist curling around their vessels, some of them preparing for departure. Jon still has some of the gold Marselen gifted him, and he asks each captain, “Where to?”

Volantis, Qarth, Sunspear, Old Town, Ibben, Yin, Ebonhead, Snowport--

“Snowport?” Jon says. “Where’s that?”

“Up in the North. Eastcoast. Where the Weeping Water flows into the ocean, if you’re familiar. There’s a port there now. Lots of people traveling there and all. There’s work to be found, see, in the mines or the quarries or in the port itself. There’s an inn, a brothel, a few shops. And it’s growing, it is. A good place for you, if you’re looking to start afresh. Lad like you could make a good life there. A gold dragon and I have a bunk for you. A month and you’ll be there. A whole new life. How's it sound?"

Nodding, Jon looks up at the ship. In ornate letters painted on the hull he can read the vessel’s name and he breathes out a laugh.

_Lady Winterwind._

As if he needed another sign...

He looked so happy, Gendry, in this new life he’s made. There’s a forge farther down the street on which Jon saw him. He’s heard of the talented blacksmith working there but never put two and two together. Never had any reason to go past the place. Rarely frequents the alehouse located closeby. But now he knows Gendry has found happiness. Gendry has moved on. Gendry has found the love of a woman and soon he’ll know the joy of a son in his arms too.

And Jon wants it. Gods but he wants it. But for the first time since he left Winterfell he knows without a doubt that he was never waiting for a day when he was ready to move on after all. He was waiting for the day when he was ready to go back, to go home, for what is any of it worth unless it’s Sansa’s love he has and Sansa’s son he carries in his arms?

For him, there's only her.

Jon fishes one of his last few golden coins from his purse, puts it in the captain’s hand, and boards the ship without looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marselen does not mean beloved brother in Naathi (as far as I know anyway lol). But when I was planning this fic and deciding what new name to choose for GW, I remembered that Missandei had two brothers in the books: Mossador and Marselen. Mossador was in the show (albeit not as her brother), but Marselen wasn’t. So I thought that would be a nice easter egg. And I wanted his name to mean brother not only because her family took him in but also to represent his status as king. He's not ta father figure to his subjects but more of a big brother. Someone who protects them and looks out for them, yes, but who's also approachable and one of them. Although he has his duties, they're more about the abolition of slavery throughout Slaver's Bay than the actual day to day ruling of the city. Meereen is ruled by a council and the title king is an honorific that will die with him. At least that's what I headcanon. You're as always free to headcanon whatever you like :))


	22. A Place to Belong

The gods don’t exist. Jon knows that for true. All the things people of faith tell you are wrong. There are no seven heavens nor seven hells. The Drowned God doesn’t welcome you to his hall to feast forever. The old gods don’t bring you to their evergrowing forest where your aim is always true, bushes and trees always bear fruit, and every stream you cross is always full of fresh, sweet water. It’s all horseshit. All that exists is here and now.

He gave up praying long ago.

But _magic_ … 

Magic allows his little brother to see the past, the present, the future. Magic enables a skinchanger to live in an animal’s body for a spell. Magic reached into the nothingness and pulled Jon back to life. Magic streamed from Zosha’s lips and hands and chased away infection, chased away death. Magic is real. Jon knows that for true too. And it’s magic he turns to now.

A child’s sort of magic, but magic all the same.

(At least that sounds a bit better than wishful thinking.)

(And leagues better than delusions.)

As long as he doesn’t know for certain that Sansa is married, he can conjure a world where she isn’t. Where she hasn’t moved on by moving into someone else’s arms. Where she doesn’t think of him with resentment and bitterness. Where she’ll welcome him home with smiles and warmth and tearful embraces. Where she'll call him family. (He’s not so bold as to hope for more, not even in his daydreams.)

He needs it, to live in that magical world, in that wishful thinking, in that delusion, or the hope urging him forward will fade and die. Jon will turn around, return to Braavos, and hide until he fades and dies too. So he tugs down the wide-brimmed felt hat he wears as protection against wind and weather and sun, and protects himself from conversations too that could shatter his carefully crafted illusion. Once he sets foot in Snowport, a burgeoning coastal hamlet sprayed with seawater and brushed by Northern winds, hope still burns bright in his heart. Without hesitation, he pushes through the throng, finds a man willing to part from his garron for a gold dragon (which is more than it’s worth), mounts the horse, and leaves the damp muddiness of the hamlet for the trodden path leading west.

Tomorrow Jon will be home. Tomorrow he will see her. Tomorrow she will hold him in her arms and everything will feel right again.

He can’t afford picturing anything other than that.

* * *

The winter town Jon knew stood mostly empty during the summer, when its residents lived off the lands and mountains, only to burst to life once winter came and the people needed shelter. Back then the muddy or slushy ground saturated hems and splashed up against legs of people and horses alike. The town square had no shops, only market stalls for goods and produce. And a lot of the homes were mere hovels with the Smoking Log as the town’s jewel with its two-storey height and annexed brothel where buxom whores adorned the unshuttered windows to entice travelers to visit the establishment.

Now a sign welcomes him to Wintertown, the letters painted in white above a pack of wolves loping over the snowbanks. Despite the season lots of people mill about, popping in and out of the buildings lining the now cobbled road. They're well-dressed and well-fed, the children tailing them round-cheeked and bright-eyed. And many of the buildings are either under repairs or have already gotten spruced up, hovels transformed into proper houses. The chatter winding through town doesn’t follow the Northern lilts alone, but sings with the many accents of Westeros, as if people have moved north by their own free will to make their luck in this place once known as too harsh for comfort. And the town square with its market stalls now boasts shops too with signs depicting an anvil or a threaded sewing needle or a meat cleaver or a shoe.

The only thing unchanged is the Smoking Log and the buxom whores waving their handkerchiefs at passers-by.

Whatever they’ve found in those mines and quarries, Sansa has certainly put the wealth to good use rather than hoarding it for herself.

Jon smiles. Aye, Ned Stark’s daughter was the best the North could ask for, that much is clear--and she can still ask for so much better than the bastard of Winterfell by her side. But he’s done making her decisions for her. All he can do is offer himself and, if he’s lucky enough she’ll have him, make sure she never ever regrets that choice.

When the shadow of familiar walls falls over him, Jon pulls the garron to a halt. If the winter town looked barely recognizable, what will he find in there? The magical world he conjured now feels as solid and opaque as dragonfly wings, the real world drab and gray behind that gossamer veil. Drab and gray behind those walls. Everything will be different.

But he’s come too far to be a craven little shit and he picks up the reins and urges the garron forward until he’s at the archway and only a guard stands between Jon and what could be his future.

“Halt.” The guard glances at him, disinterested. “State your business.”

“I’ve come to see the Queen.”

“Great hall’s closed for petitions for the day. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow. There’s an inn in Wintertown, if you have the coin.”

“I’m not here for petitions,” Jon says.

The guard does look at him, then, his eyes gliding over Jon’s clothes and horse. The horse isn’t an expensive breed, but other than that...

When he was about an hour from the winter town, he found a stream, stripped, and washed off sweat and road dust. Once he’d dried beneath a sun much milder than the relentless desert sky, he donned his only other set of clothes. He had them tailored a couple of years ago, once he’d earned enough gold. Still pleated breeches, a bone-white balloon-sleeved tunic, and knee-high leather boots. But they’re bespoke of decent enough leather and linen and silk, and they came with a tightly laced leather jerkin (which, according to the tailor, was short enough to show off what apparently is Jon’s best asset: his arse, of all things) and the wide-brimmed hat (which once sported a billowy feather Jon removed because, honestly, it was a bit much).

In Braavos, he looks like a mildly successful shopkeeper or tradesman--even without the feather. But in the North, he looks fine enough to be a lord. And that’s what the guard must take him for, for he waves him through with a, “Funeral guests will find cots in the guesthouse. Stables to your right.”

 _Funeral? Whose funeral?_ Jon wants to ask, dread curling in his stomach, but the guard is already eyeing the people behind Jon while still waving impatiently for him to pass, so Jon rides through the archway.

The courtyard of Winterfell is laid with cobblestones too. Heels and hooves now click and clack instead of squelch or thud. After dismounting, handing the reins to a stable boy he doesn’t recognize, and shouldering his saddlebags, Jon tips his head back to take in all the changes to what once was his home. It’s only then he notices the Scorpions mounted on the turrets and the men stationed there.

They don’t know, then, that Drogon is gone. And if they, after all this time, still man the ballistae Drogon must've been sighted up here often enough to still keep fear alive and thriving. The scars draped across Jon’s body sting and itch. He rolls his shoulders, rubbing a hand over his heart.

Well, at least he comes bearing good news--and that thought helps him in moving across the courtyard despite his childish spell weakening with each step.

No one pays him much mind. Servants are busy preparing for the funeral. He only catches snippets of conversations, but from what he can tell it’s hosted in a couple of days and no one has the time to eye a Braavosi stranger. There’s not even a flicker of recognition in any eye passing him, but then he doesn’t look like himself anymore and the hilt of Longclaw is hidden among the folds of his sleeve. The only person who really looks at him is a small girl with red plaits and a band of freckles across her upturned nose.

Jon’s feet slow to a stop.

He never did drop the habit of comparing the ages of children he meets to the age of his imaginary son. By now he’s become rather good at guessing ages based on height and movements and speech. Had little Robb existed, he would’ve been somewhere closer to four than three. This girl looks as if she’s about three too--and she stares at him as if she knows him.

Red hair like Sansa. Brown eyes like him. Not the first time he’s seen a child with that coloring, but this child sits on a barrel in the courtyard of Winterfell with her little heels thumping against the wood.

Could it be…? No. Sansa bled. 

Unless Daenerys lied. Unless she wrote that raven herself--and Jon bought it like a fucking idiot.

He can’t breathe. Red hair. Brown eyes. Three years old. And that look in her eyes...

Should he say something? Ask her name. Who’s your mother?

_Are you mine?_

Jon takes a step forward--and then a woman with the same coloring and upturned nose scoops up the child, puts her on her hip, and walks toward the servant quarters.

Jon sags with disappointment--or maybe relief. That would’ve been sad, wouldn’t it? If he’d had a child this whole time. Aye, relief. That’s what this is. And it's with a sigh of relief he turns around to walk toward the keep only to stumble straight into soft robes and clinking chains. Scrolls fly up in the air and land on the cobblestones. Jon bends down to pick them up, the hat falling off his head. He squeezes it under his arm and starts handing scrolls to Wolkan who’s gawking at him as if he rose from the dead and, well...

“My King! You’re _alive_.”

“Yeah.” Jon rubs his neck. “How you been?”

“Does--does Her Grace know?”

“No, I just arrived. Is she…?”

“In a meeting. I was just returning myself with…” Wolkan looks down at the scrolls in his arms. “It’s a rather important-- But this is _more_ important.” A smile blooms on his face. He even bounces a little on the balls of his feet in a way that reminds Jon of Sam, as if that's a quality required in maesters. “Yes, she would want-- Yes, follow me.”

As they walk, Wolkan turns around every so often to beam at him. It’s a bit odd, to be honest. Aye, Wolkan was always fond of him, but it's odd--and more than a bit comforting too. He must be one of Sansa’s closest advisers and if he’s _this_ giddy to see Jon again…

Still, Jon doesn’t have the courage to ask. He’ll live in the world he conjured for as long as he can--which turns out to be the stretch of a hallway before Wolkan stops outside the door to Sansa’s office.

This is it, then.

In just a moment Jon will either be the luckiest man in the world or completely heart-broken. Small wonder he breathes as if lost in a winter storm. Small wonder his hands--hands he once believed would turn steady again once Drogon died--are shaking like aspen leaves. Small wonder his mouth feels as if it's never tasted water. To ease his nerves, Jon grabs his hat and thumbs at the brim like an anxious supplicant--and perhaps that's what he is. Good afternoon, Your Grace, he'll say, bowing and scraping. Care to forgive me for all the shit I've pulled and accept my hand in marriage? 

Seven hells, who is he kidding? What the fuck is he doing here? She's never going to forgive him--why should she? He hasn't even thought of something good to say, just reckoned they'd embrace and smile and laugh and then what? Play it by ear? Aye, because that always worked out bleeding fantastic for him.

He's not ready, he's not, wants to retreat, but now Wolkan's stepping inside, leaving the door open behind him, and there she is.

As if the very sun knows the place she holds in his heart, it spills its rays through the open window and bathes her in golden light. She looks like the heart of a flame, the men surrounding her mere dusk-gray shapes, and all Jon's doubts burn away. 

He’s ready. He’s truly finally ready.

“Wolkan, the door,” Sansa says and nods to the open doorway and then her eyes land on Jon. 

A noise escapes her, wet and hitched like a strangled sob, as if he still affects her just as much as she still affects him.

_Do you still love me?_

She presses a trembling hand to her jolting chest. Fills herself with a big shuddering breath and releases it slowly through pink lips he knew only once, so long ago he barely remembers what it felt like.

_If I kissed you now, would you kiss me back?_

She ducks her head for only a beat. Then she puts her hands on the armrests of the chair and stands with the grace and dignity of the queen she is.

“Excuse me,” she says with polite smiles aimed at her company. “I won’t be a moment.”

With firm and steady steps she walks through the sunlit office, toward the shaded hallway. A breeze falls through the window then, and carries the scent of her forward to envelope him like summer rain after months of drought. She still smells like rosewater, fresh and sweet; he can’t help but close his eyes and breathe her in. When he opens them again, he finds a thousand questions dancing in hers. He doesn’t know how to begin answering them all, wishes he could just take her into his arms and offer kisses and touches instead of words.

He never was good at talking.

But Sansa holds her head a little too high and she’s clasped her hands before her, telling him with her body to keep his distance. She’s no longer the girl who threw herself in his arms in front of Night’s Watch brothers and wildlings but a queen who needs to keep her composure in front of her company and the two guards posted at the door.

So Jon keeps holding onto his hat and offers her a respectful bow of his head.

"Your Grace."

"Don't do that," she murmurs.

“Been a while," he says with a crooked smile. "Hope you've been good. You look..." He nods, turning the hat in his hand. "Yeah."

A laugh leaves her in an incredulous huff. "Where have you been?”

“Long story.”

“Then make it short,” she says, her voice softer than her words.

“I’ve been hunting Drogon. Took me years but… He’s dead. I killed him.”

She closes her eyes with a loud exhale, the stiffness in her posture loosening a touch. “Thank you,” she whispers. “Thank you.”

“Sansa, has he been--”

“Is that why you’re here? To tell me…” She glances over her shoulder. “What did Wolkan tell you? Do you…” She swallows and looks deeply into his eyes. “Why have you come?”

There’s a desperation in her he doesn’t understand. Unless she doesn’t want him here and is eager to see him leave.

She’s married, then. Or betrothed. And he’s in the way.

“Yeah,” Jon says with a shrug, ducking his head. “That’s why I came.”

_You bleeding coward. Weren't you done making her decisions for her? Now stop making assumptions too and let her know you're an option._

Nodding to himself, Jon musters up all the courage left in his body. "No, I didn't." He looks up at her, his heart ringing in his chest. “I came for you.”

Sansa’s lips part softly, her eyes wide and flitting between his as if she doesn't dare to interpret that simple statement as a declaration of feelings for she wants it too badly--or as if she hopes it won't be for it would be an unwelcome confession. He honestly can't tell. He can tell, though, that one of the guards is doing a poor job at hiding how he listens to their every word.

Cupping her elbow, Jon moves her away from the doorway and the guards, to give them at least a modicum of privacy. 

In the dimly lit space between two windows he lets his hand drop, his shoulders drop, his defenses drop, allowing her to see the truth in his eyes when he steps into her space and gazes up at her. Allowing her to see his heart.

“I’d decided to let Jon Snow die,” he says. “I'd decided to be someone else. Someone who could forget you and move on. But I couldn’t. No matter how far I ran, how hard I worked, how many people I met, I still thought of you. Only you. There's been no one else.”

Tears he never saw falling cling to the curve of her jaw, glittering like melting icicles in the little light reaching them. Breaths leave her in shuddering little gasps. But she says nothing in return. She doesn't even smile.

She doesn't stop him, either. She doesn't pull away, doesn't even look away. He has her whole focus.

Emboldened, Jon takes her hand and steps closer still. “When I said the wolf sword man wasn’t me, that wasn’t true. You were right, Sansa. What they felt was too deep to be new. It was that deep because they felt what we felt, wanted what we wanted." He brushes his thumb over her knuckles. "What I still want.” 

Her eyes drop to their joined hands and so do his. She wears a bracelet around her wrist of hammered gold and wine-red gems. He’s never seen it before. It looks like a lover’s gift. A husband’s gift. 

“Unless I’m too late,” he whispers. “Have you wed?”

Sansa shakes her head. (Her hand stays in his.)

“I’m unwed," she says. "But Jon there’s--” She wipes her cheeks with her free hand, eyes darting to the wall between them and the people waiting for her. “I’m in a very important meeting. If I don’t solve this, I might have a small war on my hands.”

“I understand,” he says, smiling. “You’re queen now.”

“Wait for me in the chamber with the tapestry of Mother and Father. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“I will.” He lifts the shoulder carrying his saddlebags. “My chamber?”

Only then does Sansa look away. "You don't have one. Not for a while now."

“Oh.” He falls back a step, his hand slipping from hers. “Right.”

She grabs his hand and pulls him back. “If you run away, Jon, I _swear_ \--” Her grip on him tightens, her eyes boring into him. “You can’t leave. Not until we’ve talked. It’s important. I mean it.”

For a beat, her intensity does nothing but confuse him--but then he remembers. The funeral. Someone died. Someone they love so well she’d never give him the news in the hallway when she's rushing to get back to a meeting. She’d take her time, sit him down in the dining chamber, offer him ale and cakes, offer him any comforts she could.

Solemn, he nods. “I won’t leave. I promise.”

* * *

Grief is too old a friend for Jon to demand its reason for visiting before he lets it in. It fills him like lead. He has to drag himself to the dining chamber where he dumps the saddlebags and his hat on the table before sagging down on a chair.

All this time he’s worried so much about a rejection breaking his heart, he never considered it could break for an entirely different reason.

It must be Arya. Who else could it be? Another Stark lost. 

When he leans back with a tired exhale, he finds them with him in this chamber, his whole family, only in woven form. In a new tapestry hanging next to the old one, he sees his family depicted in the sweet innocence of life at Winterfell before everything went to shit. The Lord and Lady Stark, their children, their ward, the bastard, and all the wolves, alive and well and so incredibly young.

Jon's eyes sting. Pressing his fingers against his tear ducts, he squeezes them shut and waits for the sensation to leave.

Why did Wolkan seem so happy, though? He’s a good man. If Jon had lost his little sister, Wolkan wouldn’t be _giddy_ , for fuck’s sake.

Jon sits up straight. No, it can’t be Arya. Did Sansa marry after all only to lose her husband? Then she wouldn’t be married anymore, technically, but her heart might still be occupied. And she would have to mourn for a while.

What color dress did she wear? He didn’t notice. All he saw was her face.

Perhaps she’s betrothed. _But, Jon, there’s someone else_. That could be what she was about to say. Jon, there’s something you need to know. Jon, there’s no love left for you in my heart. Jon, there’s no future for us. Jon, there’s no hope. 

Jon, you’re gonna lose your bleeding mind if you stay in here for however long it’ll take her to wrap up that meeting. It could be hours for all he knows. Hours alone with his thoughts. Aye, great idea that is.

Jon walks back to the office and asks the guards standing in the hallway to tell the Queen her cousin’s in the godswood. Then he heads out, hat tugged down to hide his face. Can’t risk running into someone he knows. Whatever Sansa has to tell him, he wants to hear it from her and only her. He’s good at tuning out the world too, good at drifting off into brooding thoughts or golden daydreams while his feet move on their own. 

As he passes the well, however, something penetrates his wall and pulls him out of his musings: his name uttered by scullery maids gossiping as they fill their buckets. His feet slow on their own too--and then he knows what Sansa wants to tell him after all.

There _is_ someone else. Arreld. Arreld the Wildling, who’s so charming and looks at the Queen in a way that leaves womenfolk swooning and dances with her at every feast and hasn't tried stealing her even once, despite what people say about them wildlings.

"It'll happen at the funeral feast, I reckon," one of the maid says. "She'll be sad about her cousin and all. And Arreld will be there, comforting her, and one thing will lead to another..."

Her cousin?

_Oh._

Jon almost laughs at that. What a fine joke. He finally returns home--only to attend his own damn funeral. He’s lucky, really. How many men can boast about doing the same?

The need to run is brimming in his body. To run far far away and let Sansa find happiness with this bleeding Arreld who loves her so. 

But Jon promised--and Sansa deserves better than his running away again.

He only sighs and puts a solid distance between himself and talk of Arreld.

At the gates to the godswood, the cobblestones give way to a flagstone path edged by gravel. After only a few yards it forks in two; Jon chooses the path to the left which should take him to the heart-tree.

Perhaps it will be good for him to stay too. Perhaps seeing Sansa happy with someone else will give him the closure he needs to move on, for true this time. He could find Ghost and head up to Whitetree and visit Tormund. He could ride down to King’s Landing and visit Bran and Sam and Davos. He could find a place where he could settle down, where he could belong.

A rejection doesn’t have to be the end of the world--only the end to this magical world he's conjured that does him no good after all.

He's almost at the clearing when laughter rings through the wood. Children’s laughter over the splashing of water. Jon stops. Children in the _godswood_? When he was little, only the Stark children and their friends played in there.

He shouldn’t walk on, should let Sansa tell him to his face that she’s taken a lover and gotten an heir, if that's what has happened, but he’s given his feet too much free rein lately and they take him closer to the pond until he sees them: the children--and the two women minding them.

One is a septa and the other is, surprisingly, Brienne who stands with her hands on her hips, telling a golden-haired little boy to stop splashing water over his equally golden-haired sister. Twins. Three and a half or so. And when the boy looks up at Brienne with big blue eyes and a sweet, "Yes, Mama," Jon knows without a doubt whose children they are.

Brienne of Tarth--a mother. To Jaime Lannister's bastards.

Today’s full of surprises, huh.

There are seven children in total. Besides the twins, there’s a pale-haired boy around the age of seven who’s kicking his bare feet in the water. A brunette girl around the age of four who’s sitting on a blanket in the shade of the weirwood tree and singing to a baby lying on its stomach, legs kicking and downy head angled toward the girl. Another baby, nothing but a bundle of linen really, lies in the septa’s arms. The seventh child, a boy dropping rocks into the pond with fierce focus, has brown hair too and is taller than both twins and the brunette girl. Somewhere between four and five, perhaps? 

None of them has red hair. Not that Sansa’s child _has_ to have red hair. Maybe that baby is hers, the one kicking and flailing on the blanket, and the rest are the children of stewards and advisers and ladies-in-waiting. 

And speculating was what he was trying to avoid. Jon shakes his head to himself and turns away before he’s noticed, following the path back to the fork. Chooses the right path this time. It should take him to the glass gardens, which he assumes Sansa has repaired. Should’ve been one of the first things she did with all that wealth. And sure enough. Soon the glass gardens glitter like a big diamond among the greenery, unblemished and polished and bigger than it used to be. Through the Myrish glass, Jon sees gardeners ripping weeds from flower beds, watering plants, and reaping what has ripened.

It’s a soothing display, but the path doesn’t end here and Jon’s eager to see what else Sansa has managed to accomplish in these four years. All the improvements she’s made. So he walks on to find himself in an actual garden growing beneath the open sky instead of beneath window panes. The path breaks into several narrower paths winding between rose bushes and flower clusters and well-groomed hedges, but Jon follows none of them. He stays right where he is and imagines little Sansa, a girl who only ever dreamed of a garden like this, dancing down the paths like one of the many butterflies fluttering from flower to flower.

She would've spent every moment she could out here.

Faintly, Jon registers one of the godswood children calling for their father. A sound that should be bittersweet, perhaps, because the magical world he conjured has shattered and fallen away. He and Sansa will never have children. He’ll never hear his own son calling for him in the godswood of Winterfell. But this real world waiting for him wasn’t drab or gray but bright and happy and thriving. No matter what future awaits him now, how could Jon ever feel sorry for himself on a day like this?

He closes his eyes, turns his face to the sky, and enjoys the Northern sun on his skin, breathing in the scent of roses.

“Papa?”

A small hand closes around the hem of his jerkin and tugs.

“Papa? It’s me. I'm here.” Another tug. " _Papa_."

The little voice reaches into Jon’s chest and winds around his heart and _squeezes_. 

What cruel jape is this? He can barely breathe when he turns around to find a little boy looking up at him. The brown-haired boy from the godswood. Jon waits for his bright-eyed happiness to fade at the unfamiliar face of Jon Snow rather than his father, but the boy only looks up at Jon the way the children of winter town used to look at him after he defeated Ramsay Bolton, took back Winterfell, and was crowned. He looks at Jon as if he's his hero and for half a heartbeat Jon entertains the impossible.

But no. This boy is too tall to be three and a half. No son of his would be taller than Brienne of Tarth’s children of the same age. This boy can’t be his--and yet when the boy stretches his arms up in a silent plea to be lifted, Jon obeys. Another reflex. It’s just what you do. If a child wants you to pick them up, you pick them up. 

“Papa,” the boy whispers, patting Jon's cheeks as if to make sure he's real. "You came back."

His hair falls in loose nutbrown locks without even a hint of red. And his wide green eyes are speckled with amber and brown. Jon could try to find traces of himself, of Sansa, of Stark in this boy, but he shouldn’t. Whatever he finds would be his heart whispering lies to him.

“I’m not your father,” Jon says, voice hoarse; the boy frowns, bemused. “Don’t you know your father?”

The boy shakes his head. “He rode south to fight in a war and never came back. Everyone says he’s dead. But my Papa can’t be dead.”

He speaks so well. Aye, some words are less well-pronounced than others, but he speaks too well to be younger than four. No, he's four or, possibly, a small five year old. Either way, he was a baby when King’s Landing burned.

Unless he is a very tall and very clever three year old.

Sansa’s tall and clever.

Jon’s breath catches in his throat; his words come out in a raspy whisper: “What’s your name?”

“Nathan.”

Disappointment dislodges the breath in his throat and pushes it out with a whoosh. Sansa would name her son Robb or Eddard. Perhaps even Jon. No, not Jon. But Rickon or Brandon. Even Theon. Something that _means_ something to her.

Jon doesn’t know a single person named Nathan.

He forces brightness into his voice. “Now, we should get you back to the pond before people start worrying about you.”

“But I want to be with you.” Nathan winds his arms around Jon’s neck, resting his head on his shoulder, and the squeezing sensation is back in Jon’s chest. “I want Mama too. Where’s Mama?”

“I don't know. I can help you find her. What does she do? Does she work."

"Aye. She's very busy."

“And what does she do? Do you know?"

Nathan shrugs. “She weaves. And sews. And she tells me stories. Lots and lots of stories.”

“So… she’s a seamstress?”

“What’s a seam… What’s that?”

“Seamstress. Someone who sews.”

“Oh. Aye, she’s a seamstress. She sews _all_ the time.” Nathan nods and pulls Jon’s hat off his head, putting it on his own. It droops down over his eyes, adorably. Chuckling, Jon positions it better so the boy can see. “Oh,” Nathan says, pouting a little. “Your hair is short. Papa has long hair.”

“Do you remember him, then?”

Nathan shakes his head. The hat droops down again; Jon pushes it back, grinning now.

“Mama tells me stories every night. She says it’s her favorite part of the _whole_ day. And we always cuddle with--”

“Nathan!”

Jon turns around at the sound of Brienne’s voice. She’s rushing toward him, the linen bundle now in her arms and the twins following her like ducklings.

“Nathan, you don’t talk to strang-- Oh.” Brienne stops, her mouth hanging wide open. She shuts it and swallows. “Your Grace. You…” She bows. Stands up straight. Stares at Jon. At Nathan. Back at Jon. He pulls off the hat and shoves it in the pocket of his breeches. “Does Her Grace know you’re here?”

“Yeah. I’m waiting for her to finish her meeting.”

“Oh. Yes. A wildling stole a lady. Her father is _livid_."

“Nathan?” Brienne’s little girl skips around Jon, fair locks bouncing around her face. “Come play,” she says and then she says something else Jon doesn't understand. Her brother joins her and they babble together in a language of their own.

“Yours?” Jon asks.

“Yes. Jaime and Joanna,” Brienne says with none of the pride a mother usually shines with when she speaks of her children for she’s too busy staring at Jon. At him and Nathan.

His stomach flips. Why is--

“Oh,” Brienne says, shaking her head as if to clear it from confusion, “and this is Catelyn.”

She angles the babe toward Jon. Just a tiny little thing, a month or two, the hair peeking out from under her linen cap the red of molten copper and her eyes the blue of summer skies. And Jon understands, then, why Brienne is acting so strangely. 

He really was too late.

Jon nods with a weak smile. “She’s beautiful. She looks just like her mother.”

“Really?” Brienne frowns down at the babe. “Everyone always says she looks just like Tormund.”

Jon chokes on his own spit. Tormund? Sansa and _Tormund_? No, that’s even less likely than Nathan being Jon’s. Which must mean… A slow smile spreads across his face; Brienne is kind enough to confirm his theory by blushing so hard it looks painful.

“So Tormund’s dreams came true, then?" Jon says, barely holding back his grin. "He always did want to make babies with you.”

“Yes. He’s very proud.” Brienne rolls her eyes, but there’s a found quirk of her mouth that tells Jon she’s quite proud too--and quite happy. “He’s out hunting with Ghost, but they should be back any moment now. He’ll be overjoyed to see you. I assume you’re staying?”

“I hope so. Sansa and I didn’t have time to... Yeah, I’ll stay. Either way.”

Brienne looks at Nathan again. “Forgive me, but what did Her Grace te--”

“Mama.” Jaime crosses his legs and squeezes his crotch. “I have to wee.”

“Jaime, don’t touch yourself like that. It’s inappropriate.”

“But I have to _wee_!”

“Mama, I’m hungry.” Joanna pouts up at Brienne. “ _Mama_. When’s supper? Mama mama mama mama mama.”

The twins grab Brienne’s legs and jump up and down, chanting _mama_ , while little Catelyn decides it’s the perfect opportunity to open her mouth and wail. Brienne tries telling him something over the commotion, but it's pointless, and he waves a hand to show that he doesn't mind her leaving. Muttering under her breath, she helps Jaime cling to her back like a bear cub, his little hands linked around her neck, and lifts Joanna with her free arm. Then she bows awkwardly to Jon before thundering down the path with the speed of someone who _isn’t_ carrying three children all on her own.

Jon’s so mesmerized by the sight of her, she’s almost out of view when he realizes he’s still holding Nathan. He’s been so calm, so quiet, so content in Jon’s arms as if he truly belong--

_Stop it._

“Right,” Jon says, adjusting his hold on the boy, “should we find your mother? What's her name?"

“Why don’t you know me? It’s me. Nathan.”

He sounds so small and sad Jon’s heart could break. And he doesn’t know what to say, what to do, can’t break this little boy’s heart too because what _if_ …

But no. No, it can't be and Jon needs to stop. He's being incredibly irresponsible. He needs to find this boy's mother before he starts crying.

"Your little wolf."

"What?" Jon blinks. "What did you say?"

Nathan rubs his eyes with tiny fists. "You have the sword. You _have to_ be Papa. You have the sword that looks like Ghost."

Jon stares down at the boy in his arms, his mind struggling to grasp the words as if they were streams of water running through his fingers. Fresh, sweet water when his head feels dull and heavy with thirst.

"What?" he croaks, but Nathan isn't looking at him anymore. 

He's looking at Sansa walking toward them on the stone-paved path with Ghost by her side, sunlight dancing in her hair and a smile blooming on her lips and tears gleaming in her eyes.

“Mama! Ghost!" Nathan waves at them, beaming. "I found Papa. Look! I found him! He was right here!"

Jon throat feels so tight he thinks he’ll never speak again and he asks Sansa with his eyes instead, pleading at her to make sense of all this, to end this torture where he’s too scared to hope for nothing could ever hurt him more than a no. But isn't a no. When she looks at Jon, her smile grows and her tears fall and her eyes say, “ _Yes_. _He’s yours. Yes, he’s ours. Yes."_

Jon sees it, then.

He does. Through the shimmering veil of his own tears, he sees that Nathan's brown hair might be lighter than his without a hint of Sansa’s copper, but it’s the exact shade of Bran’s hair. And the locks might be looser and bigger than Jon’s locks, but Rickon’s hair curled just like that when he was three. And the wide hazel eyes might neither be dark brown nor pale blue, but the shade and shape are Arya’s and the brows arching above them are Robb’s. It’s in the slope of the nose and the curve of the lips Jon finally sees himself. But the smile, the way Nathan smiles, the way faint dimples form in his cheeks, is all Sansa. His cheeks are hers and his chin is hers and his jawline is hers, right down to the slightly asymmetrical angle Jon always found so lovely. 

“See?" Nathan shakes his head at him. "I told you. Silly Papa. It’s _me_. Nathan. Your little wolf.”

Jon opens his mouth to say, _aye, I see it. Aye, I’m your father. Aye, you’re my little wolf._ But all that leaves him is wet, tremulous laughter. 

He has a son--a _son_ \--and he's beautiful. The most beautiful child Jon has ever seen. A child who’s lived in this world for over three and a half years thinking Jon was gone forever. Years of needing a father who wasn’t there. Years of Sansa going through all this alone when she must've been so scared, so worried, so lonely.

The guilt, the love, the regret, the joy--it’s all too much to bear. Jon’s knees give way and, holding his son so so close, he sinks to the soft, mossy grass.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into his son’s hair. “I’m so sorry for not being here. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He fumbles for Sansa's hand and tugs her down to join them, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her close too. "I'm sorry," he murmurs and drops a kiss to her temple. "I'm sorry, Sansa. I didn't know. I swear I didn't know."

A wet muzzle noses at his face, then, and Ghost licks the tears off his cheeks before curling up around them, around Jon and Sansa and their little wolf, as if to claim them all as part of his pack.

It's not what Jon pictured, not the gold-limned vision that kept him company for so long, nor the magical illusion that drove him all the way home to Winterfell. It's a little bit messy and a little bit complicated and he knows he and Sansa have difficult conversations ahead. He knows he has so much to make up for it's staggering. But as they sit there together, the four of them, in a tangle of limbs and love and family, Jon feels rooted to the spot in a way that grounds rather than traps, as if he's the heart-tree stretching its roots deep into the ground so it can live and grow and thrive.

So he can belong.

No, it's not perfect. But Jon wouldn't change it for the world.


End file.
